First Dance
by lamentomori
Summary: There are two rings in Dean's life, the one he works in, and the one around his neck. One gave him the other, wrestling gave him Punk, but it might be the thing that takes him away again. Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), Smut, Profanity. A sequel to In Bloom
1. Rumba

_Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), Smut, Profanity. A sequel to **In Bloom**_

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><p>Being on a tour bus is a lonely existence, being so far away from home, so far away from him Sphinx bastard is not only lonely, it's boring, painfully, utterly boring. Long periods of time with nothing to do but sit on his ass, listening to everyone else talking bullshit, waiting for Punk's next text, and fiddling with the string around his neck.<p>

"So... You and the _woman_? I'm kind of-"

"Fuck off." Jon has no desire to talk to this asshole, no desire to be _chatty_ with this idiot gorilla motherfucker. What he wants is to sit in his seat, glaring at the back of the seat in front of him, and wait to get to where they're going, wait for Punk, wait to be back in the freezing hellhole of a city Jon supposes is now home.

"That's not nice... I mean, me and your woman _are _friends. She likes me more than most other people." Cena laughs, and Jon curses his fondness for window seats. If he's been sat in the aisle, he could have gotten up and sat somewhere else. If he'd sat in the aisle, there wouldn't have been space for this asshole to sit beside him in the first place.

"Shut the fuck up, and fuck off." Jon sneers, almost grateful when his cell rings.

"_You did not confirm your safe arrival._" Chicago bred bastard mother hen is something Jon can apparently add to the list of things he mentally calls Cabana. "_I'm sure I specifically told Punkers to tell you to tell me, but you answered, so I guess you're not dead... Unless you're an EMT. Are you an EMT?_" He sounds incredibly rambly, and Jon can't help but laugh.

"We were _distracted_." Jon laughs again at the pitiful groan Cabana gives.

"_Number one on the list of things I don't need to know, Gerbil Cheeks._" He mumbles, and Jon has to keep a growl in check. _Gerbil Cheeks_ seems to be something Cabana is clinging to; it kind of makes Jon wonder if Punk had at first objected to being called _Punkers_, only conceding to it when Cabana and relentless _cheerfulness _had refused to let it die.

"Well... You know... Distractions are easy when you spend far too much time apart. He did tell my though, don't worry." Jon laughs again. He can feel Cena's eyes on him; can feel him staring at Jon.

"_So, you got to Europe alright? I've not contacted the afterlife, right? If I did, is Sheol nice? I mean all the Rabies told me it was cold..._" Jon glances at his watch, Cabana rambling about the Jewish afterlife isn't something he'd expected to ever hear, but he is being treated to just that. It seems that both the Saints ramble when they're bored, and the quick glance at the time shows that back in Chicago it's probably Punk's beddy-byes time. Jon can't help but wonder just where on the Colt Cabana _list of people to call because I'm bored_ he places. He imagines it can't be very high.

"Yeah, yeah... I'm here safe, but if this is Sheol, I can confirm it's both cold and wet." Jon laughs, and this time Cabana joins in. Cena's still staring at Jon, and an idea comes to him. "Hey, Cena... It's for you." He passes the phone off, and Cena pales. Despite being so close, it's hard to make anything that Cabana's saying out, but Cena's skin keeps getting paler.

"No... _No_! Just talking... Jesus, man. Fine, no, of course not! Alright, _alright_! Yeah, I got it." Cena hands the phone back. "He hung up." Cena stands, and Jon smirks at him, watching Cena shuffle off down the bus to wherever he came from.

_You're welcome, Gerbil Cheeks. Let me know if you need my services again. - Punkin 3.14's Mom_

_I want the story of why Cena is so fucking afraid of you, man! It's fucking impressive. - sent_

_Ha! It's not that interesting really. - Punkin 3.14's Mom_

_C'mon man, I'm bored. Entertain me. - sent_

_I just spoke to him... Might have threatened to castrate him... Which is my go to threat apparently... I need a new one. Any ideas? - Punkin 3.14's Mom_

_Ideas? I dunno... There isn't much a guy's more attached to than his balls. - sent_

_Well that's my reasoning! You know Hitler only had one ball... - Punkin 3.14's Mom_

_How the fuck do you know that? - sent_

_Punkers makes me watch weird shit... He's a strange man. Has he said anything to you? - Punkin 3.14's Mom_

_That's very true. He is an odd little thing. Nothing out of the ordinary, why? - sent_

_Just keeping an eye on you two... I worry. - Punkin 3.14's Mom_

_Yeah, I noticed. Thanks man, I'm not used to it, but it's nice. - sent_

_Yeah... I gotta go, catch you later, Gerbil Cheeks. - Punkin 3.14's Mom_

The odd little conversation had carried Jon over to the hotel, and he wanders into his room, flopping down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The time difference isn't great, but it's enough for him to not want to bother Punk. It's early morning back home; he'll be sleeping, all safe, warm, and _alone_ in their bed, or more accurately in LA, he left just after Jon did, so he should be there by now.

After the publicity, the show, and he's showered, Jon considers calling Punk. He doesn't want to go too long without getting in touch with Punk, but he's not sure what Punk's up to in LA, he doesn't believe for one minute it's only for Hardwick and the Gracies, so sending a text seems like a good idea. His text goes unanswered for maybe twenty minutes. When the text alert sounds, Jon dives for his phone, embarrassingly quickly, and opens the picture message with confusion. He'd been expecting an okay, or something that signified it was fine to call, not a picture, but the picture is more eloquent than a thousand words. It shows Punk, naked and hard, lying on a bed Jon doesn't recognise, his hand around his cock, a lazy little smile on his face as he stares into the camera. It's incriminating, and he should delete it, but that seems almost sacrilegious. Something this beautiful should be kept, and Jon knows he's going to. The face time call he makes is answered quickly, and he supposes Punk has got his phone sitting in some kind of stand, because once he answers he flops back on the bed and _grins_ at Jon.

"_I miss you._" He doesn't say hello, doesn't wait for Jon to speak, instead Punk goes straight to the heart of the matter.

"Yeah, I can see that, Punkin." Jon laughs, and pulls his shirt over his head. It seems rude sitting around fully clothed whilst Punk is naked, rude and counter-productive. "You miss me so much you're making porn?"

"_Hmm... Yeah, I guess. Make sure that doesn't get saved to your cloud. I don't want naked pictures of me on the Internet._" Punk's grin fades to a soft little smile, and he starts slowly stroking his cock, watching as Jon sheds the rest of his clothes and sits on the bed at an awkward angle facing his propped up cell.

"I'm thinking you're in the minority there, Punkin... Plenty of people would like to see that picture." Jon laughs, and Punk snorts, his thumb rubbing over the head of his cock. "Plenty of people wouldn't mind this phone call either." At this Punk does laugh, and Jon smirks at him.

"_Yeah well, plenty of people aren't getting it._" He grins, and shifts, planting his feet on the bed. "_You wanna talk or you wanna get me off first?_"

"Selfish! Don't I get off in all of this?" Jon's smirk doesn't move, and Punk laughs again.

"_Implicit._" He says softly, a finger from his other hand teasing his little hole. "_I wasn't kidding when I said I missed you._"

"I know... I miss you too, so fucking much." Jon licks his palm, taking his cock in hand, stroking it slowly, his eyes never leaving the little image of Punk. That one finger teasing Punk's hole is pressing softly against it, the tight muscles unrelenting against the outside force. "You're so tight..." Jon mutters, watching that finger press once more, and then moving away.

"_Uh-huh..._" Punk sounds distracted, but it's understandable, he's trying to open a bottle of lube one-handed, Jon knows that's tricky at best.

"You have something... I wanna watch you fuck something." Jon tries to make his voice sound firm, but unlike his cock, it's soft. He wants to see a substitute inside the tight heat of Punk's body though. He wants to see Punk stretched around something that isn't Jon's cock for a change.

"_Hmm... I've got something, not what I want, but it's something._" Punk abandons his cock to open the lube, and moans softly when a slicked finger breaches him.

"What is it you want?" Jon's voice is almost a whisper. He's seen this in person, but somehow seeing it on a screen is different. It's somehow _naughty_, something that he shouldn't be doing, and it excites him far more than he'd been expecting.

"_You know what I want, Cabbage Patch... You know._" Punk mutters, still distracted but this time it's by his fingers in his ass, his hips rocking as they move inside of him.

"I wish I was there to give it to you..." Jon watches as Punk pulls his fingers from himself, with a little moan. He grabs a dildo, coating it in lube before pushing it against his hole. "You're too tight, Punkin. Stretch yourself more." Jon watches Punk glance up at him, giving him a tiny little nod.

"_I know... But I wanna feel it..._" Punk grits his teeth and pushes again, forcing the head of the toy inside of himself. He lies still, panting quietly. "_Want to know that this is nothing like you... I don't want a pale imitation, I want what's mine. I want your cock in me, not some fucking fake one._"

"I know... But I don't want you hurting yourself... Go easy with what's mine." Jon smirks at the look of shock on Punk's face. Apparently, despite laying claim to Jon, Punk hadn't been expecting Jon to return the favour, but it works both ways. Jon is Punk's, just as surely as Punk belongs to Jon.

"_Hmm... Yeah... Sorry._" Punk seems to actually mean that, and he withdraws the dildo from himself, returning to stretching his hole. The only sounds for a long time from Jon's cell are Punk's soft pants, and moans.

"Try now." Jon says softly, and Punk takes the dildo back up, recoating it in lube, and sliding it smoothly inside him. "Slow... I wanna watch you fucking it slowly." Punk nods, his hand guiding the toy in and out of himself slowly. The contrast between the black toy, and Punk's softly golden skin is beautiful, the way his hole is stretched by the rubber has Jon aching to replace it with his own cock. He strokes his cock slowly, matching the pace Punk's set for himself.

"_Fuck, I miss you._" Punk moans, taking his cock in his hand, stroking himself quickly, speeding up with the dildo briefly before his focus is on his dick.

"Yeah... I know... I miss you too. Come for me? I wanna see you come before I do." Punk doesn't answer Jon verbally; he instead moves his hand over his cock faster, chasing his orgasm. He comes quietly, his back arching, his hand milking his cock, his body shuddering slightly. Jon follows shortly after. He lies on his bed panting, staring at the screen of his cell, watching Punk's chest rise and fall, watching his sweat clinging to the hair that's grown back there, watching the lazy look of contentment fade.

"_So... You miss me?_" Punk sounds smug, and Jon laughs. Missing doesn't even begin to cover it. It's more like mourning again, only this time its mourning domesticity, something Jon never thought he'd mourn.

"I miss you... I miss you _so_ fucking much, Punkin." Jon mutters, propping his cell up on the nightstand and laying down, his head on the pillow.

"_Yeah... I get that._" A sad little smile flits over Punk's lips, and Jon wants to kiss that sorrow away, wants to make a smile blossom over Punk's lips in its place. "_How's Europe?_"

"Wet... Cold... And _lonely_." Jon mutters, a finger tracing over the image on Punk on his cell, his other hand holding the little ring around his neck.

"_You've got road buddies though? I mean, I know it was probably more fun when you had Seth and Roman, but it can't all be doom and gloom._" Punk laughs, and Jon sighs, forcing a smile to his face.

"I've got road buddies, I don't have you... You wanna make Cabana worry by getting on a plane?" Jon laughs, and Punk snorts, shaking his head.

"_I don't think he'd appreciate that... He's got enough worries, real and imagined._" There's something devious in Punk's eyes, something bright and mischievous that Jon doesn't recognise.

"Hmm... Why do I get the feeling you two are up to something?" Jon laughs, stretching and grabbing his shirt pulling it on. If he sits around naked with an equally naked Punk on screen, Jon's going to be more than a little tempted to try for round two.

"_Me and Bana? Us? We're as sweet and innocent as spring lambs._" Punk laughs, pulling the dildo from out of himself, gasping as it leaves. "_You, sir, are just suspicious._" Jon shakes his head, and pulls his boxers back on, before wriggling under the covers of the bed.

"Suspicious and tired. I should sleep, Punkin." He yawns, and Punk nods, the grin on his face fading to a soft smile.

"_You're still wearing it?_" He nods, and Jon glances down, seeing his hand playing with the ring.

"Never taken it off." He shrugs, trying and failing to sound nonchalant.

"_I love you. No matter what, I want you to know that._" Punk smiles again, and Jon holds back a sigh. The Saints are up to something, something Chicago bred bastard strange, and secret. Something that Punk isn't sure about because that was a strange way to phrase his _I love you_.

"Punkin... What are you up to?" Jon frowns, and Punk laughs again, that childish little grin on his face. "I love you, I know you love me. Now tell me what are you planning, cause you look like a kid that's got a prank all laid out and ready to go." Jon has to keep his laugh back, Punk looks mildly put out, and Jon thinks he should have perhaps not called Punk on this so quickly. That grin had made him look beautiful, grinning, sweaty, sprawled on his back, his cum on his stomach, it had been a good image, a far better one than what the screen is showing now, Punk pulling his clothes on, not looking at his phone.

"_I'm getting dressed._" Punk laughs, and Jon frowns. There's something going on, something between the Saints. Although to be fair that's an assumption, but if Punk's looking so very _mischievous_, there's little doubt in Jon's mind that the Chicago bred bastard best friend is involved somehow.

"And I resent the clothes terribly. You keep your secrets... I'll find out soon enough, no doubt." Jon smiles at the lazy grin Punk turns to him.

"_I guess... Now, to sleep with you. I love you, good night._" Jon laughs at Punk, getting a headshake and an indulgent smile for his amusement. "_What?_"

"The longer you hang round with your Cabana, the more Jewish you sound." Jon smiles, and Punk shrugs, a fond little smile on his lips.

"_Well, I'm half-way there... I just need the Bar Mitzvah and the guilt_." He laughs, and Jon settles back against his pillows with a yawn. "_See! You need to go to sleep, Cabbage Patch. Go on, beddy-byes. The sooner you go to sleep, the sooner you can go wrestle more, and the sooner you can come home, to me, and my glorious pampering of you. I've not forgotten about that, just so you know. I've been thinking, long and hard, on how best to pamper the best boyfriend in the World..._" Punk stops with whatever he was fussing with just off camera, and focuses on Jon with that look that makes Jon feel like he's Punk's entire World, a look Jon would be happy to see every day for the rest of his life. "_You gotta stop being fucking gorgeous... I have shit I need to do, and alls I'm gonna be thinking about is how you're in the wrong fucking country._"

"I'll be home soon enough... I gotta get my pampering after all." Jon laughs, yawning again. "But first, I gotta sleep. G'night, Punkin."

"_Nighty-night, love you._" Jon smiles, and wonders just why Punk's said that so many times tonight. It's not that he's complaining, and it's not like Punk's stressing it, it's more like he's just saying it because he can, because he likes the way it sounds.

"I love you, I'm hanging up. Goodbye. Call you tomorrow?" Jon returns the soft little smile Punk gives him at the _I love you_.

"Yeah, g'night... Goodbye." Punk hangs up, and Jon closes his eyes, slightly bemused at the mild insanity of his other half, but mostly warmed and content that he can lay such a claim to someone like Punk.

After the show the next night, Jon found himself in the company of Roman's cousins, a surprise returning-_ish_ Jericho, fried chicken, and alcohol that he found he didn't really want. Every sip he took reminded him of that night months ago in Chicago, the night before he'd told Punk he loved him. It'd been a strange night, one where Jon knew how he felt, but was too scared to tell Punk, a night he'd spent drinking because he wasn't sure how to proceed, a night he'd spent staring at a cigarette he's still never smoked. Cabana's cigarette is almost a lucky charm now, it moves from pack to pack, never seeing a flame. It's strange, and Jon's sure Punk wouldn't appreciate it, but it's almost a symbol for his relationship with Punk. There's a foolish part of Jon that thinks if he smokes that cigarette something will happen, something will ruin what is so very good between him and Punk. He's not superstitious, but he does like symbolism, and the more inappropriate the better really.

The night wears on, and everyone, but Jon, drinks more, and gets drunker. All Jon does is keep eating that fried chicken, absently wondering how much harder he's going to have to work to counter the excess saturated fat intake. It's getting late, and Jon wants to get back to his hotel, wants to call Punk, but there's still Punk's errand to run.

"Look, man... I..." Jon mutters, and a drunken Jericho turns to him, a weird lazy grin on his face.

"Hey... You talked to Punk?" He asks suddenly, and Jon nods vaguely. He supposes that if Jericho brings up Punk it makes telling him what Punk said easier. "You did? Man... The bastard doesn't return my texts... I mean, I _thought _we were friends." Jericho takes another swig from his bottle, offering it to Jon.

"Nah, man, I'm done for the night. He doesn't return too many texts." Jon mutters, feeling his cell vibrate with a text, and being almost certain it's from a Chicago bred bastard, hopefully his Punkin Pie, but with the way his mom has been fussing, it might be the Chicago bred bastard cupid.

"So I've heard... But he talked to you?" Jericho squints at Jon, and tries to sit up, ending up sliding down the seat to slump on the floor.

"He talked, he _talks _to me." Jon nods, taking another piece of chicken from the bucket.

"Lucky... I... I dunno if I _miss_ him, I mean he was a grouchy bastard, but-"

"Good times, great memories?" Jon laughs, feeling another text vibrate on his phone, hoping that quoting Cabana hasn't summoned him, he'd like for these texts to be Punk.

"Yeah... Maybe. So how is he?" Jericho flaps a hand at the bucket, and Jon hands it down to him. "He say _anything_?"

"Hello... And that your album sucks." Jon laughs at the indignant face Jericho pulls, tearing into his chicken.

"The fuck is he listening to my album for?" The words are garbled by food, and Jon rolls his eyes, standing. The message he'd been trying to deliver has been given, and he really wants to check and see whose texting him.

"Cabana made him." Jon shrugs, fishing his phone out of his pocket. A message from each of the Chicago bred bastards in his life. His first inclination is open Punk's first, but he wants privacy to do that. If it's another one like he got last night, he definitely wants to make another face time call home.

"Ah... Colt Cabana... A man with _fine_ musical taste... I should get him on my podcast." Jericho takes another drink, and Jon nods absently, moving to leave the bus. "You want a ride to the next spot?"

"Nah, I'm good. Thanks for the food, man. You should sleep that off though, you gotta be fresh for tomorrow." Jon hops off the bus to the sound of Jericho laughing, and he makes his way back to the hotel. He'd been unable to resist looking at Punk's text, and he has another call to make.

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><p><em>Back by popular demand... Wait does it count as demand if it's two people and it's causally mentioned in passing? We've also moved on from flowers and into ballroom dancing for the naming schedule, not that it really matter to anyone but me...<em>

___**Reviews, comments, concerns and asides are always welcomed.**___


	2. Waltz

_Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), Smut, Profanity. A sequel to **In Bloom**_

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><p>"Boo!" Jon jumps at the sound of Punk's voice, and turns to face him, getting an armful of enthusiastic, and wriggling Punk, then a kiss. He's missed Punk's kisses as almost as much as he's missed the feeling of Punk in his arms, but if he's honest, there's nothing about Punk he hasn't missed. Every inch of the Sphinx Bastard in Jon's arms he'd mourned when he was so far from him in Europe.<p>

"Argh." Jon deadpans once the kiss is broken, and he closes the scant space between his and Punk's lips once more. Punk's hands are every all at once, in his hair, on his back, scrabbling at the fabric of his jacket, like he can't decide where to touch first, and it's glorious.

"Hello." He breathes once Jon stops kissing him, and Jon smiles, his hands framing Punk's face, holding him still so he can _look_ at him. He looks _so_ good for being away from wrestling, so good for being Jon's, and he loves it. Jericho had asked him some strange questions on the tour of Europe, had raised some interesting points, and Jon had had no answers for him. He _still_ doesn't know why Punk quit, he _still_ doesn't know why Punk was so sick towards the end, he _still_ has so few answers for himself, nevermind other people. It's beginning to grind on him, they're in love, but there's a whole section of Punk's life, so many sections of Punk's life, that Jon's not really aware of, not really a part of, and he wants to be. Punk is his, and he should have every part of him, but then again there's plenty of Jon that Punk doesn't know about, plenty of things in Jon's past that he's not explained or talked about. Can he really complain about not having all of Punk when Punk doesn't have all of him?

"Hey, Punkin. You're happy to see me?" Jon laughs, and Punk grins, his eyes filled with glee, his hands combing through Jon's hair.

"C'mon... I owe you a pampering." Punk steps away, and Jon shrugs out of his coat, hanging it up, and kicks off his shoes. Punk takes his bag, and starts up the stairs into _their_ home. "Go shower for me Cabbage Patch." Punk calls over his shoulder as he heads for the bedroom, and Jon shrugs, heading towards one of the bathrooms. He's been promised a pampering, and he's not sure what he should be expecting. He doesn't call Punk a Sphinx Bastard for nothing, there'd been no answers offered when Jon questioned him on what to expect from this _pampering_.

There's a soft knock on the bathroom door, and through the shower curtain Jon can see Punk pop some clothes in for him. He almost calls out to Punk, but he decides against it, waiting to see what he'll do instead.

"I brought you some stuff to wear... I... I don't know if you'll like it... It's... _New_. I picked what I thought would look good." Punk calls, and Jon smiles to himself, watching the fuzzy figure of Punk through the shower curtain.

"Come get clean with me, Punkin." Jon says, and Punk laughs softly, coming closer, pulling the shower curtain back. He's naked, and smiling ear to ear, his eyes running over Jon's wet soapy body hungrily. "C'mere." Jon pulls Punk to the stall, and kisses him, feeling Punk's thin fingers knead over the tense muscles of his back. "Fuck, I missed you." Jon breathes into Punk's ear, and starts kissing his neck, biting, nipping kisses that leave tiny faint marks, marks Jon aims to deepen over the course of the night.

"I already did that, but... I do have something I can do for you." Punk drops to his knees, and his lips are on Jon's cock before he can really vocalise his opinion on the matter. Punk's eyes are focused on Jon's, staring up at him with passion, and on the very edge of his vision, Jon can see Punk's hand moving over his cock.

"You like sucking me off, Punkin?" Jon groans as Punk's free hand rolls his balls. Punk's throat is tight, his tongue laves in all the right spots, they've been together long enough for Punk to know just how to tease Jon's cock to get him off quickly. He takes Jon's dick deeper, holding it in his throat for longer, choking on it, but thankfully not gagging. No matter how much porn tries to change Jon's mind, he never found gagging on a cock sexy, choking, struggling to satisfy, _that_ is sexy, trying not to puke isn't, and Punk knows Jon's opinions. He chokes, he struggles, he gasps for breath, but he doesn't gag, and Jon's hands wind through Punk's hair, cradling his head, staring at him almost in _awe_. There's no one person on the Earth as perfect for Jon as Punk is, they match, and as he stares down into Punk's eyes, his body trembling with his climax, there's nothing Jon has ever meant more than that almost garbled _I love you_ he manages to say as he comes. Punk stands with a smile as he swallows Jon's cum, licking his lips, and kissing Jon, sharing the flavour of the cum Punk just swallowed.

"Don't be too long, okay?" He steps out of the shower, and Jon closes his eyes, trying to will away the image of Punk on his knees, his hard cock standing ignored as he concentrated on sucking Jon's. It's a beautiful image, and one that'll keep him entertained whilst on the road, but its counterproductive to getting washed.

"You don't wanna get off?" Jon calls out, and Punk laughs in response, but the laugh is tinged with a slight groan.

"I do... But I don't have time... Later, but you're the priority tonight, Jon." Punk's head pokes around the shower curtain again. "You spoil me far too much, it's high time I spoiled you a little." He winks, and Jon shakes his head at the Sphinx bastard. He doesn't need _spoiling_, and he enjoys spoiling Punk. It's more than worth it to see him look so devastatingly happy whenever Jon does something unexpectedly sweet for him.

The clothes Punk left for him are strange. Jon can't remember the last time he wore a blazer and such nice pants. It makes him assume that they're going somewhere, but that seems out of character for their relationship. They're private people; he can't see Punk wanting to risk being spotted out anywhere where these clothes would be appropriate.

"In the dining room!" Punk shouts when Jon comes downstairs, and Jon laughs, shaking his head. Playing on the stereo is some strange classical rendition of rock music that's very Punk. Apart from the light of the stereo, the living room is in darkness, and there's a light coming from a room Jon's never been in before, which he supposes is the dining room.

"I didn't even know..." Jon trails off and stares at Punk. He looks good, impossibly good, strangely dressed in a suit jacket and some gloriously form fitting jeans. Jon thinks he can count on his hand the number of times he's seen Punk willingly dress in a sports jacket, but every time he's looked beautiful. "C'mere..." Jon almost whispers, and Punk comes to him, letting Jon hold his face and just _stare_ at him. "Fuck... You're beautiful... So fucking beautiful." A blush creeps over Punk's face, and Jon kisses him softly, then roots around in his pocket to grab his cell phone.

"What are you doing?" Punk mutters, and Jon cuddles him close, taking a picture of them. The photo turns out surprisingly nice, and Jon has to resist the urge to set it has his lock screen. Wallpaper might be okay, but the lock screen is too public for something as beautiful as the smile on Punk's face. It's a lucky shot really, capturing that expression of Punk's that makes Jon feel like he's Punk's entire universe.

"I want this keeping for prosperity." Jon laughs, kissing Punk lightly, letting him go when he tugs away to go fuss with the table. If this is all of the pampering Punk has planned, Jon doesn't mind. Dinner, soft music, soft lighting, and Punk looking so good, so healthy, so beautiful. Just a year ago, their relationship had been so very different. Just a year ago, Punk had been pale, and tired. The bags under his eyes so big and heavy, but now he's a different man. Now he's smiling softly, his skin gently golden, the bags so much smaller, they'll never not be there, but now they're so small they're wallets rather than bags.

"I asked Colby, and this is what he told me was your favourite." Punk smiles awkwardly at Jon. The table is set for two, with candles burning beside a little vase of the yellow flowers Jon always gives Punk in the middle, with clean crisp white linen, and nice cutlery. It looks incredibly _fancy_, and it seems Colby didn't lie to Punk; the food on the plates is very much his favourite.

"It is." Jon sits down, and Punk pushes his chair in. Jon doesn't think he's ever had someone do that for him, and it feels slightly strange, but he's not going to complain, it was rather sweet of Punk after all.

"Okay, go on, dig in... What do you want to drink? I... I asked Colby, and well... I mean I bought it, if you want it." Punk looks uncomfortable, and Jon glances up at him. Colby will have told Punk his favourite alcohol, and that Punk would buy that for him is strangely flattering, but he's not drinking, not around Punk, not anymore. Drinking and Punk have far too many strange memories attached. Some of them are good, some of them are less good, and some of them are of standing buck-naked in a hotel corridor. He doesn't want alcohol to cloud his time with Punk, not any more.

"I'll have what you're having, Punkin Pie. C'mon, hurry up, this'll be getting cold." Jon smiles at Punk, and takes his glass of water gratefully, watching Punk sit down, fussing with his napkin, not looking at Jon. "Hey... What's on our mind?" There's something bothering Punk he can tell, and Punk shakes his head, smiling slightly.

"It's not important right now." His smile gets bigger, and the weight that had been on him seems to lift. "What's important is that my man gets a good feed, so that he's ready for dessert." Mischief fills Punk's eyes, and Jon smirks at him.

"I love that look on your face." Jon tells him, and Punk smirks back, starting to eat. "You've got something planned my little Punkin Pie, I can tell. Am I getting _pie_ for dessert?" Jon laughs, and Punk snorts in amusement.

"You'll see." He winks, and Jon starts eating, feeling Punk's gaze on him the whole time, feeling the heat in those deep eyes.

As they eat, there's an easy conversation, and whilst Jon's enjoying it, he wants it to be deeper, he wants to know more about Punk, wants to share more about himself, but he's not sure how to start a deeper conversation. It should be easy, but it's not, it's terrifying, and Jon ignores the part of him that longs to ask deep probing questions, that longs to be asked those same questions in turn.

"So... I'm getting my _pie_ now, right?" Jon asks once he's eaten, and Punk smiles at him, collecting the plates, taking them to kitchen, and loading the dishwasher. Jon can hear the crockery chinking as Punk puts the plates in, and then the beeps of him switching the machine on.

"C'mon... Let's go." Punk holds his hand out to Jon, and he stands, twining his fingers with Punk's. Their hands are a good fit, their paces match, they're a good fit for each other in general, and whilst until recently Jon had been patient to let their relationship grow, Jericho's questions, his own lacking knowledge, it's all weighing on him. The ill-defined mutually beneficial thing had been just sex, and the more Jon thinks on it, the more their current relationship feels like nothing more than sex, cuddles, and _love_. Not that love isn't good, not that love isn't enough, it's just he wants more. He wants everything. He wants every detail about Punk's life, his story, and he wants to give his everything to Punk in return. He can feel this becoming an obsession, and he forces it from his mind as he realises Punk just walked past the bedroom.

"Where we off to?" He asks, and Punk pushes open a different door. Inside the room there's a massage table, and more soft music, the room lit with a dull lamp.

"Strip, and lie down for me... On your stomach, please." Punk kisses Jon's cheek, and starts getting undressed. There's a brief moment of hesitation as Jon does nothing, but watch Punk pull of his clothes. Once Punk's naked, he quickly starts follows suit, setting the _nice_ clothes Punk bought him down on a chair behind him. "You looked damn handsome in that suit, but this is the outfit I like best." Punk steps up to him once Jon's naked, and kisses over his collarbone. "You've been working out more?" Punk's hands are resting on Jon's waist, skimming over his narrow hips. The curves of Punk's body are things that Jon loves the most about it, the swell of his ass, the nip of his waist, those curvaceous thighs, by comparison, Jon always feels lacking, though even he will concede that the Ambooty is rather fine, he will however kill Colby for forcing him through Tumblr.

"Ain't much to do in my _free_ time but work out, Punkin Pie." Jon's hands settle on Punk's hips, squeezing them gently, there's a little less give than usual, and he almost frowns, but Punk's kissing him. There's no frowning when Punk is kissing him, there's only the need to keep kissing back.

"Lie down for me." Punk waves at the table, and Jon lies down on his stomach as Punk requested, hearing him potter around a little before some softly musky scent fills the air. The first firm stroke of Punk's hands on his back is heavenly, Jon hasn't had a good massage in a long time, and Punks fingers feel firm and sure. A good massage should hurt a little, and as Punk works the knots and kinks out of his muscles, there's a low buzz of pain. "I took lessons." Punk says softly, as he works on Jon calves. "I wanted to be good at this for you... You look so tense on TV... I want to be able to take the tension from you." Jon makes an inarticulate groan, Punk's ministrations are firm, confident and reducing his brain to mush. "Turn over." He works over the front of Jon's body with the same deliberate method, ending up by gently massaging Jon's face, a content little smile on his lips. "You look happy." Punk's voice is soft, awed even, and Jon stares up at him.

"Course I'm happy... Be happier if you'd touch me somewhere else." Jon smiles, and Punk kisses the tip of his nose, stepping away from the table, and rubbing his oily hands on a towel. "Do I get to eat my dessert yet?" Jon asks sitting up, feeling wondrously relaxed.

"Nope, you get to go to bed, and lie down on your back. Make sure you stay nice and hard, I won't be long." Jon snorts, and leaves the room, going to bedroom and lying down. The bed's been turned down, the lights dimmed, and he lies there thinking of nothing but how good Punk's hands had felt as they moved over his skin. When Punk comes into the bedroom, the first thing Jon notices is the oil on his skin, making his tan look deeper, making the ink of his tattoos brighter.

"You gonna ride me, Punkin?" Jon asks, and Punk nods, straddling Jon's thighs, taking his cock in his slicked hand. "You prep your tight little ass?" Jon's hand runs down Punk's back to his ass, and Punk shifts, letting Jon feel his asshole. "You're full?" There's something inside Punk, and he laughs.

"All night... Since I came to you in the shower... It's been fucking hellish... But worth it." Punk moves, pulling the toy from inside himself, and takes Jon's cock in one motion. He pauses, his thighs tensed once Jon's buried fully inside of him. The oil on Punk's skin makes the lines of his tattoos glisten, makes the curves of his body standout, and Jon stares at him, at how incredible he looks as slowly fucking himself on Jon's dick. Punk moves slowly, letting Jon feel every inch of his body as it clings to his cock, drawing Jon's end closer and closer. His hands run over as much of Punk as he can reach, skimming over the shimmering oiled skin, caressing every sleek inch of Punk's form he can. He takes Punk's cock in his hand, and the smooth movements of Punk's body falter. "Don't! Lemme... I'll do that, Cabbage Patch." Punk smiles down at him, and leans in for a kiss. "I want you to focus on nothing but getting off." Punk smiles, and Jon shakes his head, watching Punk carefully, enraptured with how good Punk looks in that moment. All night Punk has looked gorgeous, but as he moves over Jon's cock, his skin shimmering, his hair getting damp with sweat, he's never looked better.

"Nothing gets me off more than watching you enjoy yourself, Punkin." Jon tells him seriously, and Punk groans, taking his cock in his hand, and speeding up his movements. The hushed sounds of sex fall over them, gasps, moans, flesh on flesh, murmured words of praise, and awed encouragement. There's nothing but the subtle soundtrack of their lovemaking filling the air of the room, it's by far the greatest pampering Jon's ever received. He shudders as he comes under Punk, he can feel Punk still moving over his cock; can feel the muscles of Punk's ass tightening around him when Punk comes. The after-effects of his orgasm linger, leaving him feeling sated and content, moaning softly, when he feels Punk's tongue lapping his cock clean.

"C'mere." Jon whispers, and Punk raises his head to look at him. "As beautiful as your face is, Punkin... I want your ass... Lemme finish eating my dessert." Punk's eyes widen, and he moves to straddle Jon, his ass presented to him. Jon places a kiss on Punk's hole, and slides his tongue inside, searching out his own cum. "I love your face, Punkin... It's my favourite, but your ass." Jon kisses one of Punk's ass cheeks, and licks over the other. "Your ass is fucking paradise." He takes one cheek in each hand and holds them apart, his tongue finishing the task of licking every drop of cum out of Punk. It's hard to focus on the task though, as Punk's tongue has returned to licking delicately at Jon's still overly sensitive cock. Eventually, Punk moves from over Jon, and settles with his head on Jon's chest, his face turned up to look at Jon for a few seconds before kissing him slow and easy, then settling back down once more.

"You gonna be here for Thanksgiving?" Punk asks, lazily drawing shapes on Jon's chest, and he smiles down at Punk. He intends to be there for Thanksgiving, he has Punk's family to meet after all, but there's always a chance that he'll get called to do something somewhere by the Office.

"Tentatively yes." Jon kisses Punk's damp hair, and feels a soft kiss pressed against his chest, Punk nuzzling against him.

"Good." Punk grins up at him, and Jon kisses his forehead. Just fucked Punk is undeniably beautiful, and Jon could stare at his sweetly sated smile all night, but he can feel sleep demanding his attention. "Get some rest, Cabbage Patch. I'll still be here in the morning." Punk chuckles, and Jon kisses him once more.

"Better be, I've only got tomorrow, then I'm away again. I gotta make sure I get as much of you as I can before I have to go." He laughs, and Punk snorts, settling down to sleep.

"If you get too much, you might not want anymore, I should deny you some." He chuckles, and Jon squeezes him, his mind whirring with thoughts that there's plenty that Punk is denying him, but none of its physical, in that respect both he and Punk are very sharing, even emotionally they're _open_, but there's plenty they deny each other, _plenty_. "G'night." Punk yawns, and Jon mumbles a goodnight, falling asleep to the sound of Punk's breathing.

The next day is as Jon had wanted it, he takes as much of Punk as is offered, and plenty is offered. They fuck, they make love, they cuddle, they chat, but there's something in the back of Jon's mind, something odd and unsettled. He's sure it isn't _the_ itch, he's sure it's not the desire to be away from Punk, because the thought of being away makes his heart clench. He thinks it's the desire to be _closer_, to know _everything_, to understand Punk inside and out, to have every little secret his Sphinx Bastard keeps locked up in his precious little head for his own. It's not just the desire to have everything of Punk though; it's the desire to _give_ everything _to_ Punk as well. Jon wants to sit him down and explain from his earliest memory all the way through to fuck they just had, the last one they'll have time for before Jon has to go again. He's hoping he'll be back before Thanksgiving. He's hoping to spend a few lazy days on the couch with Punk. He's hoping Punk's family like him, and that he manages to stay on Cabana's good side. He's hoping mostly that the people closest to Punk see him as a good for him; he doesn't want to be on their bad side. He'd been on Cabana's in the beginning, and it'd been the worst. Of course, now the Chicago bred bastard cupid is on his team, but in the beginning it'd been different, at least Jon thinks it had been, it might have been that in his own weird way Cabana was always on his side. It was through the constant interventions of Colt that he and Punk have gotten this far.

The next morning, Punk kisses him goodbye whilst still in bed, and Jon leaves him reluctantly. It's luck, and chance that keeps him from being photographed by some random fan skulking out of Punk's place. There's more than enough clandestine shots of him taken in the airport, but he's not one of those people who feels the need to explain himself or his location to anyone. Yet, he can't shake the feeling that someone is going to put two and two together and come up with Jon's fucking Punk. Cena worked it out, Joe and Colby already know. It can't stay a secret forever, no matter how much he'd like to keep his relationship with his Punkin Pie personal and private; someone will twig and start harassing him eventually.

On the road, life is painful and dull. It's always at once busy and yet not busy enough. There's too much time for him to think, and he puzzles over all kinds of stupid shit, waiting for the next reply from Punk, waiting for the next opportunity to call him, _waiting_ in general. He goes through the motions at work, throwing himself into being _Dean Ambrose_, and waiting for the next opportunity to go home and be Punk's Cabbage Patch. He's pretty sure he hates that pet-name, but its far better than Gerbil Cheeks so he'll live with it, and _maybe_ it'll grow on him, because Punk seems rather attached to it and he doesn't think it's going anywhere.

Finally, he's gets time off for Thanksgiving, and he gets on a plane back to the freezing hellhole of a city that is essentially home. He's not given up his place in Vegas, a _tiny_ part of him hopes to persuade Punk out there again to take advantage of the warmer weather. It's yet to happen, but Jon thinks the next time the UFC is out there Punk will be persuaded to go. He doesn't miss Vegas, rather he misses being warm. Chicago is bitterly cold in the Winter, and Jon is sick of being cold. On the road, he's always cold, _always_. He wants to be warmed by the feeling of Punk in his arms, a warmth that comes not just from Punk's body heat, but from the warmth of the feelings inside Jon. Love is strangely warming emotion, and Jon adores it, adores the way being in love with Punk makes him feel, adores the domesticity he never thought he'd crave. Punk makes him feel settled, makes him feel comfortable, makes him feel _home_, and on the road he misses that sense of home so much more than he ever thought he would.

Once he's back home, he notes the extra coat and shoes in the hall. Cabana's there, but it's hardly a surprise. Where there's one Saint, the other is usually not too far behind. He wonders if they missed each other whilst separated by the WWE, he can imagine that they probably did. Between Punk's always touring, and Colt's constant hustling, there would have been a lot of time for most friendships to sour. Differences in paycheques, differences in celebrity, the constant questions about Punk to the Chicago bred bastard best friend, Punk living a dream denied to Cabana, for most other people there'd be plenty of scope for jealousy, and bitterness to creep in, but it doesn't seem to have happened to them. Their friendship seems as strong as any Jon's ever seen, far stronger than any Jon's ever had, even as close to Colby and Joe as he is, there's still a gulf between them compares to the Chicago bred bastard Saints.

"How'd you feel?" Jon stands on the other side of the door for a few seconds confused. It's a strange tone Cabana just asked Punk that question in, not one Colt uses with Punk, it sounds more like how he'd spoken to Jon so long ago when he'd been recording for the Art of Wrestling.

"I feel _awesome_..." That's not Punk's _real_ voice, that's Punk's talking to the public voice, that's his being easily understood voice, that's his _interview_ voice.

"Yeah?" A podcast, that _has_ to be what they're up to, but the question is why. Jon doesn't know of anything that's changed that would make Punk want to break his media silence, but then again he doesn't know the full circumstances that caused the media silence in the first place.

"A little hungry." Punk clearly isn't taking it very seriously, and Jon smiles, even with Colt, especially with the Chicago bred bastard best friend, Punk doesn't take things too seriously. Their friendship really is one to be admired, and slightly feared. Nothing is more protective that a roused Cabana, as Jon has learnt, though possibly not learned as well as Cena. The thought of Cena's paling face on the bus as the Chicago bred bastard mother hen snarled at him makes Jon grin. If Punk's joking it can't be a serious podcast.

"I mean after this..." Cabana on the other hand sounds serious, his voice far more serious than Jon was expecting. The tone rouses his suspicions, and he's not sure why, but something about this isn't sitting right with him. It was serious, incredibly serious, and Jon's desperate to know what was said in this _interview_.

"This? No, it's good, it's good. Like I said, there're still going to be people who are like _no, you're a quitter, you took your ball and went home, _because that's what they heard on Monday Night Raw, so they're going to be a sheep and just regurgitate that, but that's cool. I didn't quit. I got _fired_." Jon pushes the living room door open, and stares. They're sprawled over the couch and each other, Punk's head against Cabana's chest, both talking into mics, still rambling on and on. Jon takes a seat on a chair, and frowns, listening to them ramble. _I got fired_. Punk didn't tell him, didn't say anything to that effect, had let Jon labour under the assumption that he quit, and it _hurts_. He'd thought that he was close enough to warrant telling the truth to, but seemingly not. Punk was fired, and he didn't feel the need to tell his lover that. It's clear that Cabana knew, but then again the Chicago bred bastard best friend knows _everything_. Jon sighs, watching them lying there talking, watching the way Cabana's thumb absently strokes over the skin of Punk's stomach where his shirt has ridden up. It's easy to picture Cabana's hand moving up under that fabric to play with Punk's nipples, or creeping down under the waistband of his pants to caress his groin. _Easy_ but abhorrent. No one's hands but Jon's should be on Punk's skin; no one should lie on couches holding Punk but Jon. The longer he sits and stares at the Saints, the more he wants to gut Cabana, and he knows that a futile and pointless desire. The Saints are as platonic as platonic can be, the very definition of heterosexual life partners, only Punk's not heterosexual, he's Jonosexual, or maybe gay, it's another thing they've never discussed. The more Jon sits there staring, the more he realises that he _knows_ very little about the Sphinx Bastard. He knows that he loves Jon, and whilst there's a starry-eyed naive part of him that believes that's enough, the cooler cynic in Jon _knows_ that it isn't. There's a lot they need to talk about, a lot they need to sit and discuss, especially if they are going to be in a _real_ relationship.

"Well, I won't do plugs, because you just come on and plug whatever the fuck you want, when you want." Cabana sounds like this is going to be the end of their podcast, and Punk sits up, grinning over at Jon, waving his fingers at him. Jon manages a tight smile, and Cabana meets his eyes, looking at him, something oddly tense on Cabana's face. He can tell there's something wrong, and Jon can almost see him trying to work out how to smooth this over. He shakes his head; he'll talk to Punk on his own. Jon can already tell that the Sphinx Bastard will be evasive, not giving him any real answers, so Jon will have to wait until the podcast airs to find out everything, and then question Punk based on the information gleaned from it. Until then, Jon thinks that they might have to sit and have a real conversation, a heavy one, not something light and easy as usual. They need to start talking about each other, not just living in this soft, happy bubble of love. Real life is going to creep in, and love might not be enough to sustain them. Jon isn't letting go of Punk, not that easily, so he wants to be able to guess at the hazards that might be coming by knowing of the hazards in the past.

"Fuck yeah." Punk sounds smugly amused, and Cabana starts fussing with the recorder, his shoulders tense.

"I'm gonna head." Cabana's expression doesn't change, the strange tense look on his face, like something is genuinely bothering him, doesn't let up, and it's such a curious change from how relaxed he'd looked lying with Punk on the couch. "_Punkers_." Punk turns Cabana, his smile falling away at the expression on Colt's face. Punk doesn't say anything, just shakes his head, and Cabana turns to Jon, staring at him. There's a message in his expression, but Jon has no idea what it is, he's not fluent in Cabanaese. It seems the Chicago bred bastard cupid gets that, because he turns to Punk once more, his eyes narrowed. What their silent exchange was, Jon isn't sure, but from the set of Punk's shoulders, he lost the argument. Cabana finishes stashing his gear, and stands. "I'll see you later Gerbil Cheeks." He smiles at Jon, and all Jon can do is nod. There's a tension between the Saints he doesn't think he's ever seen before, they're maybe not fighting but they're definitely not agreeing, and it's strange. Punk's gone a long time, too quiet to understand snippets of a snarled conversation drift up to Jon, and he settles on the couch, considering the little of the podcast he'd over-heard. _Fired_. He can't help but wonder what else Punk hasn't told him.

"I should have told you." Punk sits down on the other end of the couch from Jon, and Jon laughs, reaching out to him, pulling him closer. He should have told Jon he was fired, but he didn't, and there's not much that Jon can do about it. He can be hurt by the lack of communication, wounded by the lack of trust, but if he blows up, he'll lose Punk, and that will hurt, will wound him far more than this ever could.

"You should of." Jon tilts Punk's face up to him, and kisses him softly. "You didn't, but you should of." He smiles, and Punk stares at him in confusion. "What? You expecting a fight?" Jon laughs, and pulls the string with the ring on it from under his shirt. "You love me, you make bad decisions sometimes, but so do I. I'm sure there's going to be a million things I should have told you and I didn't, or haven't, or won't. You'll have reasons for not telling me." Jon's surprised by the maturity in that sentiment, surprised by how grown-up and reasonable he sounds. It's not like him, but that's the man he is with Punk, a _real_ man. Someone more capable of understanding the flaws of his lover, of forgiving them because he can see his own flaws reflected straight back at him. Jon is more than willing to work through both sets of flaws, because not having his Punkin Pie is something Jon's utterly unwilling to consider.

"I have reasons for everything, Jon." Punk says softly. There's an odd lilt to his voice, and once more Jon considers what could be on that podcast. There's more than what he over-heard, there's more than just being fired that's for sure. "I didn't tell you they fired me for a whole bunch of reasons." Punk sighs, and shifts so that his head is in Jon's lap. "I was sick, I was tired, I was frustrated, so I walked. They didn't call, they stopped paying me my royalties, I complained. They fired me for retro breach of contract. I hired a lawyer, we won. Long story short." Punk smiles, and Jon frowns at him. "The longer story is on the podcast... I..." Punk sighs, and stares up at Jon, his eyes soft, his expression that one of utter adoration. There's nothing in the World like being looked at by Punk like that. "I _love_ you so fucking much... I'm..." Punk leans up and kisses him. It's a strangely thorough kiss, a kiss that makes Jon moan, and pull Punk closer, not to deepen it, not enjoy it, but to change it. It's a good kiss, but it's _sad_. There's something in the way Punk's moving, acting in this kiss, that sets Jon on edge. He wants to grab Punk by the shoulders and demand to know what he's done, because there's something, and whilst at first it'd seemed like a good idea, it's clear Punk has had time to consider it, and has changed his mind, but the prank is set and there's nothing he can do. "I'm _sorry_." Punk whispers so low that Jon is sure he wasn't supposed to hear it. He tenses, and for the first time, in a _long_ time, his stomach fills with worms.

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><p><em>Many thanks to the ladies and gentlemen who reviewed:<em>

**Johncenapunkjericholic, littleone1389, Guest, VKxXx92, Brokenspell77, and alizabethianrose.**_  
><em>

_Thank you for your patience! I know it was a long wait... I deeply apologise to my PunkBrose's two biggest fans, I sincerely hope you can forgive the wait my loves! ^-^_

__**Reviews, comments, concerns and asides are always welcomed.**__


	3. Tango

_Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), Smut, Profanity. A sequel to **In Bloom**_

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><p>Thanksgiving is when whatever the podcast Jon had walked in on is dropped, but he doesn't have time to listen to it as soon as it's uploaded. In fact, he actually forgets about it in favour of panicking over spending time with Punk's family. They're a loud boisterous group of people who descend on Punk's home like a plague of laughing happy locusts. They cook, they laugh, and they each corner Jon at various times throughout the morning questioning him. He actually thinks Punk's not-quite-sisters know more about the past of Jon Good than Punk himself by the time lunch rolls around. At the dining table, he's told a million stories about Punk's youth, a million stories that have Punk squawking, looking at Jon with pleading in his eyes, begging Jon to not believe the tales of his many failed relationships, and many slightly sketchy doings. These stories Jon had wanted to hear from Punk himself, but hearing them from his family is okay.<p>

Conspicuous in his absence is Cabana, Punk's sisters had each mentioned his not being there, and Punk had shrugged, not offering an explanation as to where Colt is. They'd looked at Jon for answers, but had none, and Punk had said nothing. Jon wasn't sure what to make of it, but he thinks it's related to what he'd seen the other day, the silent exchange between the Sphinx bastard and the Chicago bred bastard best friend. The Saints are fighting, _disagreeing_, with each other, and it seems that everyone who knows them knows to be concerned. Punk is acting like it doesn't bother him, but more than once Jon has seen him glance down at his cell phone, a pensive look on his face. Its clear Punk doesn't like fighting with Cabana, and Jon feels impossibly sad for his Punkin Pie, fighting with his bastard best friend can't be any fun for him.

Later in the evening, Cabana shows face, and is passed around the sisters, getting hugged, before Jon is dragged to the kitchen by them, leaving Punk and Colt to talk. He feels strangely like a little kid being ushered out of the room by older siblings when their parents are going to have a fight. There's no raised voices though, no angry words to be heard, and Jon's mildly confused by the pensive expressions the sisters are wearing. They're worried, and Jon's reluctant to be anything but worried too in the face of their concern.

"Ladies... I'd appreciate it if Jon and I could have a minute." Cabana appears at the kitchen door, wearing a smile on his lips, and a scowl in his eyes.

"You're staying for pie?" One of the sisters asks, and Cabana shakes his head.

"I've prior engagements... I'll take one home though." He grins, and the women file out past him, one of them pointing to a pie in a box for him to take home. "Sit." Cabana points to a stool, and Jon takes a seat on it. He sets a USB stick down on the counter in front of Jon, and sighs. "I fucking told him to talk to you. I want to make that clear. I fucking told him a thousand times that relationships are built on actually fucking talking to the person you're in love with, rather than gleefully pretending nothing shitty has ever happened to you and saying nothing." Cabana looks pissed, and Jon stares at the little USB stick. "We're doing two." He says awkwardly, and Jon nods. Two podcasts, whatever Punk said it's _big_. "Jon... He loves you, and he's trying... But he's _scared_." Cabana pats Jon shoulder, and he turns to look at the tense expression on Cabana's face. "You fucking terrify him." Colt sighs again, and Jon just stares. He's no idea what the Chicago bred bastard cupid wants him to say. "You're a lot more mature than I give you credit for... Or I just don't know you well enough, and I'm not sure which it is, Jon. This." He taps the USB stick. "This is the first part... Listen to it away from him, think about it... Take your time, but _please_ don't use it to justify doing something stupid. He was tired, he was hurt, he was scared... He's still scared, and Punkers doesn't deal with being scared well." Cabana stands, and Jon stares at him some more.

"Scott?" Jon calls out to him, and Cabana turns, his eyebrow raised. "You do a lot for him... He loves me, but he _needs_ you." Jon mutters, and Cabana laughs shaking his head.

"We're friends, Gerbil Cheeks. Sometimes friends get pissed with each other." A grin settles on the Chicago bred bastard best friend's face. "I'm team Punk, doesn't mean I'm president of his fan club though." Cabana snags the pie, and leaves through the back door. Jon stares down at the little USB stick, and pockets it, hearing Punk come into the kitchen.

"Bana left?" He asks, and Jon nods. "Jon... I..." Punk sighs, and leans against the counter staring at Jon. His expression changing from confused to concerned to angry and back again. "I've... _Fuck_." Punk sighs, and leaves through the backdoor, leaving Jon staring at it. He's no idea what to do but keep the sisters entertained, and hope that Punk comes back.

The rest of Thanksgiving, Jon spends getting told more young Punk stories from the sisters. He likes them, they're gregarious and bubbly, a fun way to distract him from whatever is going on with Punk and Colt, from whatever is going on with the Saints that he's in the middle of, because Jon knows this is related to him. There's something going on, and there's something on this USB stick that Jon needs to hear.

Once the sisters clear out, Jon takes the USB, and plugs it into the first laptop he finds, and he listens to Punk talk. For nearly two hours Punk talks, and Jon listens, for nearly two hours everything that was going on with Punk during the entire time they'd been fucking backstage is laid forth. As Punk talks, Jon can feel something inside him curl up and will the World away. Three years of frustration, three years of annoyance, three years of Punk hating something he's supposed to love.

_"I guess the black and the white of it, when you just boil it all down, the essence of it was I was miserable; I was unhappy, fuck it! I made myself happy; I left."_

Jon stares up at the ceiling, his mind carefully blank. Punk was miserable, Punk was unhappy, he made himself happy, he left. He made himself happy by leaving the WWE, leaving wrestling, leaving Jon. To make himself happy, Punk left him without a word, he'd been prepared to draw a line under their _thing_, and move on for the sake of his happiness.

_"I have a very strong philosophy about the business, and I don't think a guy like Seth Rollins or Dean Ambrose, I don't think they do."_

It's a phrase that's stuck out to Jon, a little throw away phrase, but it burns. Punk doesn't think Jon has a philosophy about wrestling, he doesn't think Jon cares as much as he did. It's bitterly offensive, and it hurts to hear him say that. It hurts to not have Punk say that he's proud, or that he believes in Jon, rather he thinks Jon just goes with the flow, that he doesn't fight for what he thinks is right. There might be a little truth in that statement, but Jon's no push over, he's not one to just _stay_ in the rut he's put in.

_"Well, I think those guys might..."_

Cabana's words took a little of the sting out, but his focus was on Colby, and Jon was swept neatly under the rug. He wasn't important enough to really be worth a mention. He's Punk's lover and there's no mention of him in this damn thing anywhere, there's another fleeting blip of his name in the Z-Pac story, but other than that, _nothing_. Punk mentions being in love, having found the person he's convinced he's going to be with for a long time, if not forever, but Jon's name isn't brought up, there's nothing but silence on the who this _love_ in Punk's life is. The staph infection, the MRSA, that terrified him, because he could have lost Punk, and he didn't know it. He vaguely remembers the lump on Punk's back, and now that he thinks on it, he can see the ugly purplish scar on Punk's lower back from where it was in his mind, but Punk didn't trust him, didn't believe in him enough to tell him about it face to face. Punk could have died, and he's never thought that was something he should mention to the person that he's supposed to be in love with. Jon knew there was plenty they weren't telling each other, but he'd thought it was all in the past. He'd thought it was all stuff that was from _long_ ago, not from just a year ago. It _burns_, it burns bright and bitter in heart, it burns the worms in his stomach to ashes.

_He's scared._ Cabana had stressed that to him in the kitchen, and as Jon lies on the couch listening to the podcast, he thinks Colt's wrong. Punk doesn't sound scared, he sounds relieved, he sounds happy. He'd recorded that podcast lying in Colt's arms, and he sounds far happier there than he ever does with Jon. The worms, like a phoenix, rise from the ashes in his stomach, and Jon closes his eyes. Cabana knows everything about Punk, Punk tells him everything. They'd be _perfect_ for each other, only Punk's in love with Jon, and Cabana isn't interested in Punk.

_I love you... I'm sorry_ Punk's words to him last night, the words that had revived the worms in the first place. Sorry for what? Sorry not telling him, sorry for leading him on, sorry for not being honest, or open, or trusting Jon enough to let Jon try to help him. Sorry for ever getting involved with him in the first place. He needs answers; he needs Punk back here so he can get them.

_Get here - sent_

A text tone comes from the kitchen, and Punk walks in looking pensive. His face is pale, but his cheeks are blotchy, his eyes rimmed with red, his hair a mess as if he'd run his hands through it a thousand times.

"Sit." Jon points to the couch he's not lying on, and Punk sits down, his eyes focussed on Jon's face. "Fucking _talk_ to me." He snarls, and Punk sighs, looking away, turning to stare out of the window.

"What about?" His voice is croaky, a little broken, and as much as Jon wants to go over to him, and comfort him, he wants answers more.

"Why the fuck didn't you tell me any of this?" He sits up, and Punk turns to him, his eyes still down cast. "Punk, you're supposed to be in love with me, but I don't know fucking shit all about you."

"You know enough..." Punk sighs, and Jon runs a hand through his hair, tugging on the strands in frustration.

"I _know_ fucking nothing!" He knows he should be calm about this, but the calm maturity he'd felt earlier is slipping from him in the face of Punk's apparent apathy. "I know the same bullshit anyone who's watched your DVD or listened to an interview knows... I know what your sisters fucking told me today, but I know _nothing_ from you." He growls, and Punk sighs.

"You know I love you." Punk says coolly, looking at Jon with that insufferable Sphinx expression on his face. "I know you love me, that's plenty isn't it?"

"For an infatuation, _Phil_." Jon sneers, and Punk's eyes narrow. "I don't want to be infatuated with you, you bastard. I _want_ to be in love with you, I want to know every single little fucking stupid thing that goes on inside your pretty little fucking head! But you're clearly too much of a fucking pussy to let me close enough. Obviously, you're not as in _love_ as you say, because for every time I think about how much I love what I know about you, I'm ten times as desperate to know what I don't." Jon stalks closer, standing in front of Punk, staring down at him, and Punk snorts, looking away.

"Don't fucking think about touching me." He sneers, and Jon clenches his fists, feeling something inside himself, some emotion he can't feel well enough to explain to himself. "You ever think, _Jon_, that the reason I don't tell you things is because they're not important. The past is the past, leave it be." He fidgets on the couch, and Jon sighs sitting on the table, staring at Punk's face.

"Your past made you who you are, Punkin... I want to know what made you, what formed you into you." Jon makes a grab for Punk's hands, but he crosses his arms over his chest.

"I didn't tell you anything that was on that podcast because at the time, you were my fuck-buddy, and then it wasn't fucking important because it's over with. There's no point in clinging to what's already happened." Punk sounds so final, and Jon isn't sure how to explain himself, isn't sure how to make Punk understand that his past is something Jon covets because it's a part of Punk. There's nothing about Punk Jon doesn't want, but it seems there's plenty about himself that Punk would like to be rid of.

"Cabana said you're scared-"

"_Fuck Cabana!_" Punk stands with a vicious hiss. "Fuck that meddling fucking bastard. He can keep his fucking nose out of my fucking business. I didn't ask him to get involved. I didn't ask him to get you to come to me. I didn't ask him to have you on his fucking podcast. I didn't ask him if I could sit and listen to what you said. I didn't ask him to get you to come over. I didn't ask him to fucking fix _this_ when it was broken. I asked that motherfucker for _nothing_." Punk's pacing, his voice harsh, and heavy with fury. "Fuck him! Fuck him and his fucking inability to leave me the fuck alone." Punk storms over to the stairs. "I didn't ask him for this. I didn't ask him... I didn't ask you for any of this either." Punk clomps up the stairs, and Jon sits on the couch quietly. He's not sure what to do. There's a part of him that wants to chase Punk upstairs, to scream and shout, demand answers, demand explanations, but he can't listen to that part of him, because in this case it's wrong. Instead, he takes the USB from the laptop, and puts it in his pocket, before going to the front door, and pulling on his shoes and coat, leaving Punk's apartment. The best thing to do here is to take some time to consider this, to give Punk some time to cool down, and _think _about what he wants. Jon knows what he wants; he knows that he wants to talk to Punk, but Punk's not in the mood for that, so this is the only thing he can do.

"Hello, hi... Yeah... I'm sorry it's short notice, but when's the next flight from O'Hare to McCarran?"

* * *

><p><em>Many thanks to the ladies and gentlemen who reviewed:<em>

**AshJovillette, VKxXx92, littleone1389, and Brokenspell77.**_  
><em>

_A touch of drama... But really they do need to converse to really be in a relationship, infatuation wears off rather quickly after all. :3_

__**Reviews, comments, concerns and asides are always welcomed.**__

_So I have assumed control of the Tumblr account in my name, and joined twitter in a out of hungoveredness... if you'd like to follow me, I guess , it's following on these social media thingies isn't it?_


	4. Foxtrot

_Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), Smut, Profanity. A sequel to **In Bloom**_

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><p>Silence. Jon's been sitting in his apartment staring at the wall, listening to the sound of silence for hours. He'd listened to Punk's podcast again, and he'd no idea what to think about it. Punk could have died. Punk didn't trust him enough to talk to him. Punk didn't think anything he said was important enough to tell Jon. Punk didn't think he was important enough to mention by name. <em>There's someone. <em>That'd been the closest to Jon's name he'd come, he'd danced around the issue of his relationship. _I'm happy, I'm... I'm in love. _Cabana had _almost _pushed Punk to say that, but the little ramble that'd come after it had been all Punk, and it's the one high spot in the whole podcast, the one moment that makes Jon hopefully at Punk will stop being so scared, and talk to him. His phone suddenly makes a noise, and Jon dives for it _hoping_ that it's Punk.

_He doesn't think we have it? What the fuck is wrong with you woman? I'm a fan of his work and all, but FUCK PUNK! I fucking have it! We fucking have it! - Ma Two-Tone Brotha_

He's never been more disappointed to receive a text from Colby in his life. Jon had hoped it would be one of the Saints, Punk preferably, but he'd more than settle for a text from Cabana. He needs something from either of the Chicago bred bastards, but they aren't talking it seems.

_He's just saying that we have different philosophies to him. - sent_

_Fuck that! He's saying we aren't going to fight like he did! - Ma Two-Tone Brotha_

_Dean, what the fuck is your woman playing at? -Ma Samoan Jesus Brotha_

_We aren't going to fight like he did. - sent_

_What you mean? - sent_

_No... I guess not. He fought alone. We have each other, right? - Ma Two-Tone Brotha_

_How is he? Is he okay? Can I call? I don't wanna disturb you two... I'll call tomorrow, or no! We're back at work then! I'll talk to him when you do! - Ma Two-Tone Brotha_

_He told you none of this, did he? - Ma Samoan Jesus Brotha_

_No. -sent_

_Fucking woman! - Ma Samoan Jesus Brotha_

_We fought. He's in Chicago, I'm not. I'll see you tomorrow, Seth. - sent_

_He's worse than you are... And where the fuck was his BFF? I thought it was his fucking job to sort your woman's messes out! - Ma Samoan Jesus Brotha_

_You okay? Where are you? You in Chicago? - Ma Samoan Jesus Brotha_

_No... You're in Vegas, aren't you? - Ma Samoan Jesus Brotha_

_You want me to call? - Ma Samoan Jesus Brotha_

"_Hello?_" Joe sounds confused, and Jon sighs, not really sure why he called. "_You wanna talk to me?_"

"I wanna talk to him, but he won't talk to me." Jon closes his eyes, his stomach roiling, and Joe sighs over the phone.

"_What you wanna talk to him about?_" In his mind, Jon can see the anxious look of concern that'll be on Joe's face, the way his eyebrows will be knit, and his eyes narrowed.

"Everything... I love him, Ro... But I don't _know_ him. I wanna know him." It feels better to say his thoughts out loud, feels like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

"_You've got it bad, Deano_." Joe laughs, and Jon nods to his empty room, sitting on the couch, trying to convince himself to think of anything but the time he'd taken Punk on it. "_I'm guessing he ain't talking_."

"The past is the past... He doesn't think it's important." Jon can hear Joe sucking air through his teeth; can hear annoyance building in his friend.

"_His past made him who and what he is... He doesn't much like a lot of that I'm guessing._" Joe sighs, and Jon laughs softly. Punk clearly doesn't much like anything about a lot of himself. "_He loves you though... That has to count for something... I guess you just gotta wait him out._"

"He's scare-"

"_Fucking petrified!_" Joe laughs as he interrupts Jon, his amusement deep, honest, and heavy. "_I'm surprised you're being so mature about this... I'm proud as hell, but still, I'm surprised._"

"I _love_ him... I... When we're apart I feel like I'm gonna throw-up, and there's this _pain_ in my chest..." Jon stares that his own reflection in the TV screen. He looks pale, he looks messy, he looks tired, he looks _lonely_. "I'm fucking terrified of him too, but I ain't running from him, I ain't letting him beat me."

"_Love isn't a contest, Dean... If you love him, you have to let him come to terms with things... If you love him you have to be prepared for him to not feel the same way._" Joe sighs, and Jon stares at his reflection. If he loves Punk, he has to be prepared for Punk to be too afraid to want to be with him. If he loves Punk, he has to be prepared for Punk to not love him, has to be prepared for Punk to want nothing more than an infatuation.

"I'll fight for him... Even if I have to fight him... I _can't _let him go." Jon stares at his reflection's eyes, stares at the conviction in them, feeling startled by how brutally true that statement is. For Punk Jon will fight, for Punk he's a better man, and he's not going to let anything, even Punk, stop him from being the man he should be, the man he _has_ to be, the man who's in love with Punk.

"_Good luck, man... You might need it._" Joe hangs up, and Jon tosses his cell down onto the cushion beside him, only picking it up when it chirps with a new text.

_I fucking TOLD you to listen to it AWAY from him! I FUCKING TOLD YOU NOT TO USE IT TO EXCUSE DOING SOMETHING DUMB! - Punkin 3.14's Mom_

Jon stares at the text, and laughs. This wasn't dumb, this was sensible. This was giving Punk some space to think things over, to consider what he wants from a relationship with Jon, _if _he wants a relationship with Jon, a _real_ relationship, not a mere infatuation.

_I'm giving him some space. - sent_

_You're running away! You're doing exactly what he expects you to do. - Punkin 3.14's Mom_

_What did you want me to do, Cabana? Fucking force him to listen to me? Force him to talk to me? I'm not forcing him... I can't make him do something he doesn't want to. I'm letting him think about what he wants. - sent_

Cabana doesn't say anything back, and Jon isn't sure why but it amuses him. He knows that Cabana thinks he's wrong for doing this, but Jon's _sure_ he's right. Only the more he sits and stares at Cabana's texts, the more he thinks he might have been wrong in that assumption.

_Punkin, talk to me. - sent_

It feels needy that he sent the text, and it's made even worse by the silence that he gets for it. Punk says nothing, and Jon isn't sure what to do about it. He wants to talk to Punk, but the longer this goes on; the longer there's a silence between them, the more he thinks that Punk may have decided that love isn't enough after all. Love had been the one thing Punk was sure of, had been willing to share with Jon, but where do they go if love isn't enough? If Punk has decided that his fear is greater than his love, then there's nothing left for Jon to do but let him go. Joe had said that might be something Jon has to accept, and he supposes he'll just have to learn to live with feeling like his heart is in a vice, and like his stomach is trying to eat itself.

The second podcast is released on Thursday, and Jon almost feels sick as he listens to Cabana ramble. He almost wants to skip to the interview, but he's listening for clues as to the content, he's listening for any sign of what's to come. It's nothing but rambling for a long time, nothing but the Saints chattering away about nothing, being themselves.

_"We were involved in this whole process, and I say we, but you obviously the most, because it's you, me because, you know I... I... I'm a good vent, venter-to-er._

_"One of the select few by the way."_

_"I've been dealing with it personally for you, through you and everything for so long, and I guess so many people who... Every, everybody was shut out of, you know, I guess the whole story."_

_"To us the information was just every day." _

There's something under Cabana's tone in that exchange, something that makes Jon want to find the Chicago bred bastard, and hug him, because it's accusatory, flattered and happy, but accusing Punk of not sharing with the people who were important to him. They keep talking, distracted by rambling asides, and Jon wonders if they're lying snuggled up on Punk's couch again, or if they're sitting differently, the tension from Thanksgiving lingering over them, causing a divide. He's not happy the Saints are fighting, not happy that they're not happy, because it means that Punk must be devastated. Jon had meant it when he told Cabana that Punk _needs_ him. There's a deficit in Punk that only his bastard best friend can meet, being denied Cabana's company must be brutal for Punk.

_"Working the Shield, and that's when I dawned on me. This, this isn't fun." _

Jon pauses the podcast there, and goes to smoke. He can't take that. He can't handle knowing that he and his Shield brothers were when Punk realised he wasn't able to keep going. He can't handle knowing that in some way he ruined wrestling for Punk. It wasn't his fault, he knows it's not, but he was part of the problem. That three on one match, he remembers the planning, remembers the frustration on Punk's face, the apathy in his voice as he muttered _I know_ a million times. It'd made him laugh at the time, had made him promise to fuck the frustration right out of Punk later, but at the time Punk could have _died_. The last few months of their ill defined, mutually beneficial _thing_ Punk could have dropped dead at any moment. He could have died, and all Jon did was fuck him harder, and avoid the lump on his lower back. Once he finishes his cigarette, he crumples the pack and throws it in the trash, settling on the bed once more, clicking play on the podcast again. The Saints finish talking, and Jon listens to Cabana's closing ramble.

_"Don't shoot the messenger."_

He's sure it's not aimed at him, but there's a part of Jon that feels like those words were aimed squarely at him. He's not going to shoot Cabana, he's going to thank him for these podcasts, he's going to thank him for forcing him into going to Punk in the first place. Everything Punk didn't ask Cabana for, that's exactly what Jon wants to thank Cabana for. The Chicago bred bastard cupid looks out for them, but it seems like he's done with that, because he's not contacted Jon since those texts days ago. The singing at the very end of the podcast had Jon laughing, thinking of Punk singing to his plants in the summer. They'd been so happily in love for a good long time. Jon should have left it, he should have been more patient, he shouldn't have pushed Punk to go deeper. An infatuation would have been better than this _yearning_. Jon's cell rings, and he glances over at it, checking the id, and wincing.

"_Hi._" Punk's voice is unexpected, despite Jon looking at the caller id and knowing it was Punk, to hear him talking first is a surprise.

"Punkin." Jon mutters, closing his eyes, feeling a smile creeping over his lips. "You decided you wanted to talk to me?" There's a brief pause, Punk sighing over the line, the sound thin and reedy.

"_You scare me._" Punk sounds utterly miserable about making this confession, and Jon _aches_ to hold him, to reassure him, to remove that misery from him.

"I'm sorry." He's not entirely sure that he is sorry though. He's not happy Punk is scared, but he is happy Punk is brave enough to admit to being afraid.

"_I've been thinking... And arguing with Bana. He's not talking to me._" Punk gives a desperate little laugh, and the pain in Jon's chest increases. _You're part of everything_, Cabana's words on the podcast, a little throw away phrase, but it shows how deep the Saints' relationship is, how _vital_ to both of them it is, and for them to be fighting over Jon is daunting.

"Want me to talk to him?" Jon offers. He's no idea what he'd say to Cabana, no idea where to start, but he wants to make the offer of extending an olive branch between the Saints. He's the root of this fight, him and the fear he causes in Punk is why the Saints aren't on the same page.

"_No... It wouldn't help... It's between me and him. Our friendship is sometimes kind of messy._" Punk laughs again, but once more, it's a gut-wrenchingly sad sound. "_I've fucked up so much with this. I wanted to just tell my story, to get it out there so people would leave me to get on with my life. I didn't want this, Jon._" Punk sounds horribly close to tears, and the need, the complete over-whelming _need_ to be with him is all that fills Jon's mind. Punk is hurting, he's in so much pain, and it hurts Jon to know he can't be there to take it from him. "_I just..._" There's a long pause, one where all Jon can hear is Punk struggling to keep his breathing even, a pause where a thousand things to say cross Jon's mind, but he can't force any of them out of his mouth. "_You still there?_"

"I'm still here." _I'll always still be here_. Jon thinks it, but he can't say it, not yet, Punk's too afraid. Forever, _always_, they're scary thoughts. They're not something Jon's every wanted. He's always wanted to be free, to not be tied down to anything, or anyone. The string around his neck, the ring attached to it, they're bonds, _shackles_, but they're ones of Jon's choosing. Punk is the tether, the leash that Jon's happy to be domesticated by.

"_I'm sorry._" Punk hangs up, and Jon sighs, resting his head back against the pillow of the hotel bed he's lying on. Too scared. Punk's far too afraid, and Jon has no idea how to get him to be braver. He sighs, and stands intending to have another cigarette, only then realising he'd smoked the last one. The last cigarette in the pack. The one cigarette he never smokes. The one cigarette that brings back memories of standing in a dark alley, watching Cabana explain why Jon and Punk are similar with it. The one cigarette Jon has always thought of as symbolic of his relationship with Punk. The one cigarette he's already smoked.

* * *

><p><em>Many thanks to the ladies and gentlemen who reviewed:<em>

**AshJovillette, littleone1389, Guest, Brokenspell77, VKxXx92, and Rebellecherry.**_  
><em>

_I'm pretty sure I suck at drama... I am a writer of all that is maudlin... If my writing were a colour it'd be mauve._

__**Reviews, comments, concerns and asides are always welcomed.**__


	5. Pasodoble

_Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), Smut, Profanity. A sequel to **In Bloom**_

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><p>"Where is he?" There's a dark mote of irritation in Colt's voice, and Punk shakes his head. He's lying on the couch, the same couch Jon had been laying on last night, the couch Punk had come down to maybe an hour after he'd stormed upstairs, the couch that had been empty, the couch that Punk has been lying on ever since.<p>

"Dunno." Punk doesn't look over at Colt, doesn't acknowledge his presence any further, all he does is stare up at the ceiling, feeling _small_. He's used to rejection, used to being left behind, and he's used to being the cause of his abandonment. He had hoped that Jon would understand, he had hoped that Jon was going to be the one who would stick around, but why should he when no one else has? _Alone_ is something Punk is familiar with, it's comforting in a way. He'd had unfamiliar months of being happily in love, and now he's faced with the familiarity of being alone, and _pining_.

"You gonna do something about this?" Colt sits on the other couch; even from where Punk's lying, he can feel anger radiating from him. Alone is a dramatic statement, and a lie. Punk is never _alone_, not really. No matter what Colt will be there. He's proven time, and time again that no matter what Punk does he's not going anywhere. There was a time, _years_ ago when Punk had been more than a little in love with his best friend, but fear, and overt disinterest on Colt's part, had let those feelings morph into what they are now. Punk loves Colt, _needs_ him, but it's the same way Punk needs oxygen or his blood, his friendship with Colt is vital to him, but it's not being _in love_.

"What can I do?" Punk sighs, and Colt huffs in annoyance. "He left." Punk gives an awkward little shrug, and closes his eyes. If he focuses, he can smell the scent of Jon clinging to the fabric of the couch. He's not sure if its wishful thinking on his part, but it's comforting if nothing else.

"You can get off your ass, and go and fucking talk to him." Colt moves, looming over Punk, a scowl on his face. "You can stop fucking wallowing on the couch and go to him."

"I... What's the point? He _left_, Bana." Punk smiles slightly, staring up at his friend. "It's better than he leaves now than when I'm even more invested in him... A little pain now, saves a lot later."

"_Coward_." Colt hisses, and vanishes from Punk's view. The slamming of the front door is brutally loud in the silence of Punk's apartment.

They record the second podcast, starting on opposite ends of the room, but ending up curled up on the couch again, Punk wrapped around Colt's arm, Colt somehow managing to deal with the techie stuff one-handed.

"You gonna talk to Jon?" Colt asks softly, conversationally almost, and Punk winces. He'd known that was coming, and he doesn't want to broach the subject again. It'd been messy last time, to be honest, it's been messy every time Colt brings up how Punk should let his lover in.

"And say what?" Punk mutters, closing his eyes, trying to meld with Colt's arm.

"The truth? You past, your present, your future? You know, all the shit he wants to find out about. All the shit you should have already fucking told him because you're in love with him." There's ice beneath the mild, and friendly voice Colt uses, darkly harsh ice that has Punk letting Colt's arm go, and springing to his feet.

"There's nothing for me to tell him. I'm a fucking open book. He's seen the DVD, he's heard interviews, he knows more than enough about me." Punk feels less convinced of this line of reasoning than he had when he gave it to Jon.

"You're a _coward_, Punk. He might have runaway, but you're a far bigger coward than he is. You think sitting here _wallowing_ in your own self-indulgent misery is fucking reasonable? You fucking _know_ it's not. You're being a selfish little cunt, Punk. You want him to bow to your whims? Why? Because you're worried he's gonna leave you? Worried he'll get bored of you? Well, he fucking will if you keep shoving him away. You're in love with him! Go and fucking _talk_ to him." Colt's on his feet, snarling low and soft, anger making his voice drip with venom.

"Fuck you, Colt! How about you fucking _get_ a love life before interfering in mine?" Anger makes Punk loud, makes his vowels elongate, and his fingers twitch. Colt glares at him.

"Fuck you, Punk." He hisses.

"You already declined, motherfucker." Punk laughs, a sharp brittle sneering sound.

"Yeah, well I wouldn't fuck you mother either. She's even more of a bitch than you are." Colt snaps, and turns on his heel, leaving Punk alone, filled with too much adrenaline, and a strange achy pain in his stomach. He hates fighting with Colt, _hates_ it. It never resolves anything. All that happens is they say stupid bitter things to each other, and bring out the worst of each other, then don't talk for a while, before making up. It always happens, and it's always by unspoken, mutual agreement they go to apologise. Ever since Punk moved into this apartment, every time there's been something to apologise for he's met Colt halfway to Punk's place. Never on purpose, always by accident, always by chance, always by their strange need to not spend more than a few hours not talking. Between him and Colt, tempers run hot but quick. Usually at least, this feels different, this feels like it went too far, or not far enough, something isn't right, and Punk has a vague idea of what to do to make it better. There's one thing that could fix this mess, one thing that would stop him _wallowing_, but he's scared of it. He's far too afraid to make the call to Jon, but there's no other choice.

"Hi." Now that he's _finally_ called, Punk has no idea what to say, he almost wants to hang up, but that'd be both rude, and weird. It'd send the wrong signals to Jon. He's afraid, but he doesn't want to lose Jon. He wants things to be simple, he wants things to be normal, he wants things to be okay at least.

"_Punkin, you decided you wanted to talk to me_?" Punk closes his eyes at the sound of Jon's voice, closes his eyes and wills everything, but the warmth that fills him away. He's been so _cold_, so alone since Jon left, since Jon ran, and he's tired of being cold. He wants to bask in sound of Jon's voice for as long as he's allowed to, which might not be long if he doesn't start talking.

"You scare me." The admission is painful, but Punk had expected it to be, but nothing will come after it, nothing but some horrible aching need for Jon's arms around him, no other words are willing to leave Punk's lips.

"_I'm sorry._" Jon sounds almost like he doesn't quite mean that, almost like he's grateful that Punk has told him something of the truth, something that's _just_ for Jon.

"I've been thinking... And arguing with Bana. He's not talking to me." It's an understatement, Colt's steadfastly ignoring him, and it hurts, it hurts so much that Punk has to laugh or he'll cry. He's _truly_ alone, and as ever, it's because of his own actions. If he'd talked to Jon before recording the podcasts, if he'd told Jon the truth, if he'd told Jon _anything_, Colt would have been content, he'd still be there with Punk now, Jon would still be there, and there wouldn't be this pain in Punk's gut.

"_Want me to talk to him_?" Jon's offer is sweet, but unhelpful. There's only one way to fix what's wrong between Punk and his best friend, and he's trying to go that way now, but it's hard.

"No... It wouldn't help... It's between me and him. Our friendship is sometimes kind of messy." Punk can't keep the miserable little laugh back. _Messy _and _stupid_, he needs his best friend, and he needs to be braver, he needs to talk to Jon. "I've fucked up so much with this. I wanted to just tell my story, to get it out there so people would leave me to get on with my life. I didn't want this, Jon_._ I just..." Punk can feel frustrated, miserably sad tears pricking the corners of his eyes, and he feels foolish. He can't keep going, can't keep talking, not right then. He hopes, _desperately_ hopes that Jon will say something, but he doesn't, there's no sounds over the phone at all, not even the sound of Jon breathing. "You still there_?_" He wants Jon to still be there, more than that he wants Jon to be here with him. He wants to be curled up in Jon's arms, he wants to somehow get out of this looming conversation, and skip straight to the being happy together again.

"_I'm still here_." Jon sounds so firm in that statement. It sounds like just behind it there's more, like in saying he's still there he's really saying he'll always be there, and it terrifies Punk. Forever isn't something someone else can offer him. Forever is for _easier_ people, more mellow people, people who aren't Punk.

"I'm sorry_._" Punk hangs up, and lies staring up at the ceiling once more. It'd been stupid to call, stupid to think that he'd have somehow managed to _stop_ being afraid just because his story was out there. Colt's right, but there's nothing Punk can do. As much as he hates being paralysed with fear, it doesn't take the fear from him. He's afraid, horribly afraid of Jon, which is stupid, because the only pain Jon's caused him has been brought about by Punk's fear of being too emotionally invested in Jon, but he is invested. The more he lies on his couch staring at the ceiling the more he knows he's far too invested in Jon, but he _thinks_ Jon is just as invested in turn. He'd taken that ring, he'd answered Punk's call, he'd wanted to talk, he'd wanted to listen. The whole thing _hurts_. He needs to get this off his chest, needs to talk, but he can't talk to Jon, not yet anyway.

_Talk to me_ _- sent_

_You can't stay pissed with me forever! - sent_

_Alright, fine! Fuck you! Be mad about nothing! - sent_

The next morning he gets nothing from his usual sounding board. Colt is genuinely too pissed with him to talk to him, so Punk busies himself with other things. He's got a meeting later, something important, something exciting, something he'd never expected, but his mind plays tricks on him all day, it convinces him that he can hear message alerts, ringtones, Twitter notifications, or email pings a thousand times, but the cell screen remains dark until he lights it up. There's nothing back. Despite the excitement of the day, despite the business, he misses Colt, so just before he goes to sleep he can't resist on last try at getting Colt's attention.

_I'm sorry. Please... Talk to me. - sent_

A knock wakes him up maybe an hour later, a sharp hard rap against his bedroom door, and Punk sits up, rubbing his eyes, sipping at the glass of water on the nightstand.

"You're sorry? I'm not the one you need to be apologising to, Punkers." Colt comes into the room, and sits down on the bed beside Punk. Punk squirms over, resting his head on Colt's thigh, closing his eyes when Colt's fingers start running through his hair. "You need to talk to him. You _need_ to let him in."

"I know." Punk murmurs softly. He knows what Colt wants him to do, knows what Jon _needs_ him to do, but he's afraid. The fear is old, and deep, twisting through the through his personality, like Japanese Knotweed, no matter how Punk tries to be rid of this fear, it keeps coming back stronger than ever.

"_I know_?" Colt asks him softly, and Punk doesn't answer, he can't. He knows, he knows painfully well, but he's scared, pitifully, pathetically _scared_.

"I know what I should do, what I _want_ to do, but Bana." Punk sighs, and Colt's fingers ruffle his hair gently, then taps Punk's shoulder. It's an unspoken order, one that means _move_. Punk lies back on his pillow, but only for as long as it takes Colt to lie down, then he all but throws himself at his best friend, his arms wrapping around him tightly. Being held by Colt is _nothing_ like being held by Jon, with Jon Punk feels alive, horribly afraid, but in that fear, there's vitality, with Colt he's safe, and that's all there is to it, nothing more, nothing less than the safety of knowing nothing is going to break them apart. Colt's going to be there forever, and Punk has no idea if Jon is, no matter how much Punk wants to believe he will be, there's no guarantees with Jon.

"He's gonna be on the road. He's gonna be away from you. There's nothing either of you can do about that, Punkers." Colt's thumb rubs over Punk's back, the sound of his heartbeat, rhythmic and steady, _reliable_, the very best word for Colt is reliable, and Punk's eternally grateful for his presence in his life. "The real question is, are you more afraid of being _with_ him or without him?" There are times Punk hates Colt, hates how he gets straight to the crux of a problem, how he refuses to let Punk brood on the safer ideas of him being afraid of Jon running, of Jon being at fault. The truth is Punk pushed, Punk denied, Punk threw up barriers to test Jon, and Jon left him to it. Jon knew Punk well enough to know that if he stayed, Punk would see it as winning, that he'd scored a point in this game. He sent that text, but he didn't grovel, he didn't admit fault. He knew, _knows_, that Punk is looking for a weakness, looking for Jon to be weak for him, so Punk can feel secure in knowing that if he has to be he can be the strong one, he can do the breaking before he gets broken. "He's scared too, you know." Punk scoffs at Colt's words, and closes his eyes. He very much doubts Jon's scared, he's in charge of this scenario, he's the one with all the cards. "But he's not gonna give up, Punkers. I _know_ he's not. When he looks at you, it's like that's it, you know?"

"No." Punk tries to sound firm, but he knows it sounded weak, because he knows the exact look Colt's talking about, knows the way Jon's gaze lingers on his face sometimes, something like reverence in his expression, something like adoration, something like an unquenchable flame of passion, all aimed at Punk. It's a look Punk hates, but treasures like nothing else anyone has ever given him. He doesn't feel _worthy_ of that look, doesn't feel like he's earned it, but he's no idea how to earn it, he's not even sure it _can_ be earned.

"Bullshit, Punkers... He loves you." The way Colt says it is _so_ final. A little piece of Punk, the little piece that can never argue with Colt swells with confidence.

"You think so?" Punk asks tentatively, and Colt laughs at him. "Answer me, asshole." Punk snaps. He feels a little better, he feels a little _braver_.

"I fucking _know_ so, you dick." Colt laughs, and Punk smiles slightly. He has an idea. His visitors earlier in the day give him the perfect excuse, just in case Colt's wrong.

"I got a visit today... A new job offer." Punk tilts his face up to his best friend, a grin on his lips. He's made a decision, a possibly very stupid decision, possibly _two_ very stupid decisions, but he's excited, truly, genuinely _excited_. For the first time, in a long time, Punk can't wait to get on a plane, can't wait to be somewhere other than home.

"Oh? Well, remember to buy a nice suit, UFC is all very _professional_... Something light though, Vegas is hot."

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><p><em>Many thanks to the ladies and gentlemen who reviewed:<em>

**Rebellecherry, Brokenspell77, VKxXx92, alizabethianrose and littleone1389.**_  
><em>

_Next chapter should be the last one - I figured I should give advanced warnings this time. ;)_

__**Reviews, comments, concerns and asides are always welcomed.**__


	6. Viennese Waltz

_Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), Smut, Profanity. A sequel to **In Bloom**_

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><p>"What the fuck is your woman playing at?" Colby hisses at Jon once he arrives at the arena, a scowl on his face. "Fucking asshole... Was he intentionally trying to piss me off?"<p>

"I don't know, Seth... He's not talking to me." Jon sighs, and scrubs at his face. He's not in the right frame of mind to deal with Colby's annoyance. He's not in the right frame of mind to be anywhere near the WWE in general. They'd come so close to killing Punk, everyone one of these people backstage, even him, had all managed to kill a part of Punk, and if he hadn't left it would have killed all of him. He _despises_ professional wrestling; he never wants to set foot in the ring again. He won't _talk_ to Jon. There's a lot Punk doesn't intend to do, and Jon is desperate to know what he _will_ do.

"_Still_?" Joe's voice is a surprise, and Jon turns to him, a miserable smile on his lips. "Fuck... Dean, you look like shit."

"Aren't you pissed about this? He shat on you as well." Colby snaps, and Jon laughs wryly.

"He only _shat_ on me... He just tossed some shade your way." He scrubs his face again. He wants away from his not brothers. He feels itchy, and it's disconcerting. He's itchy to be away, itchy to be somewhere else; he's itchy to be in Chicago, and to _talk _to Punk. The smoked cigarette feels like a bad omen, and he wants to see if there's anything to salvage in his relationship with Punk, or if it's gone in ashes and smoke like the cigarette itself.

"I dunno... Who doesn't want to be made to look _really, really strong?_" Joe laughs, and Jon stares at him. "What? C'mon, he didn't say anything that he couldn't have phrased better. He was talking to his BFF... They _know_ each other, know what isn't said. He wasn't shitting on me. He was shitting on the agents and bookers who didn't trust him to do his job. He wasn't really shitting on any of us. He was... Recanting the notches on his frustration badge." Joe is annoyingly calm, but Jon loves him for it. He sighs deeply, and then hugs Joe tightly. He's the big brother Jon's never had, and he's _so_ grateful for that. "C'mere, group hug." Colby's caught and pulled into the hug, his chest pressed to Jon's back.

"I'm still _slighted_." Colby sniffs indignantly once Joe releases him. Jon pulls away from Joe, and smiles awkwardly at Colby. "Oh for fuck sake, stop looking so _miserable_, _Jon_." Real names, _serious_ business, and Jon nods. He's not sure he looks any less miserable though, because he feels impossibly miserable. "I was thinking... The way he was talking... Do you think if they'd just called him, he'd have come back?"

"Yeah... I think so." Jon mutters. This arena feels too small all of a sudden. It feels like the walls are closing in on him, and he fobs his bag off onto Joe. "I'm gonna go have a smoke."

Outside he stares at the fresh cigarette in his hand, watching it tremble slightly. His hands are shaking; it feels like his brain is shaking too. He's no idea what to do, what to say, how to make this _right_. Punk didn't call him back, Cabana is incommunicado. There's nothing Jon can do, nothing short of going to Chicago, and he's not sure that's a great idea. He's pretty sure he'd not be welcomed into Punk's home. After this taping, he's been granted some time off, and he supposes the only thing for him to do is to go home to Vegas. He's not sure he wants to spend time there, but he's no other real options. Where he wants to be, he's more than likely not welcome.

"Ambrose, just the man I was looking for." Jon closes his eyes, and plays make believe that if he can't see Cena, Cena won't be able to see him. It fails miserably, and Cena stands beside Jon, a smile on his gorilla-like face.

"What?" Jon isn't in the mood to indulge Cena, isn't in the mood to indulge anyone. He wants to be left alone. He wants to brood in silence. The cigarette, the symbolic cigarette is smoked, and Jon fears that his relationship with Punk is too.

"How's your woman?" Cena asks, leaning against the wall, and the whole situation reminds Jon horribly of the night Cabana spoke to him in that dark alleyway, only Jon feels entirely different.

"Fuck off." Jon snaps, and leaves, heading back inside the arena. He's not talking to Cena; he's no desire to discuss anything with that repugnant Neanderthal.

Once inside he finds his brothers, and lets their chatter soothe the miserable voices swirling chaotically in his mind. There're so many thoughts, so many disjointed ideas in there, and the steady stream of Colby and Joe acts as the perfect white noise to drown them out.

"You're heading home?" Colby asks once the show's over. Jon nods, he's heading back to Vegas if nothing else, as home as home can be without being able to go to Punk. He wants to let Punk work this out for himself, wants Punk to make the decision on what to do himself. He doesn't want to push, doesn't want to fight him.

"Yeah, back to Vegas." Jon mutters, stashing the last of his stuff in his bag.

"Come home with me." Joe offers, the big brother look of concern on his face. "The little one would be happy to see her Uncle Deano." He smiles, and Jon is tempted, sorely tempted, is about to say yes when his cell rings. The caller id surprises him enough to answer it straight away, leaving the locker room to find a quiet spot to talk.

"_He's an asshole... And I'm sorry._" Cabana sounds as horribly miserable as Punk had when he'd called, and Jon laughs slightly, feeling impossibly sorry for both the Saints.

"Don't be, man. It's..." Jon's natural instinct is to say _its okay_, but that's a horrible lie. It's nowhere near okay, but he hopes it will be.

"_He'll get there... I'm just sorry it'll take a while... Look, Gerbil Cheeks, I'd understand if he was too much work for you._" At this Cabana laughs, and Jon joins in. It's ridiculous how much Cabana acts like he's somehow tricked Jon into this, that somehow he's responsible for Jon and Punk being together. To a large extent, he is, but they're the ones in the relationship, they're the ones who should be talking, and sorting this out.

"Cabana, you okay?" Jon asks, and there's a heavy pause on the other end of the line, then a deep sigh.

"_We're not talking. I'm pissed with him, he's pissed with me, and himself, and moping... He's a moper when it comes to his emotions, Jon... I'm warning you now. We fought, it was stupid, and we should know better, you know? Nothing good comes from us being mad at each other, but he's being ridiculous. I've been telling him from day one that he should talk to you, that he loves you, so he has to let you in, because you love him. You do love him, don't you? I've not been pouring poisoned honey into his ears?_" Cabana's rant has a smile forming on Jon's lips. A miserable, Punk-less Chicago bred bastard best friend is ranty, sullen, and overly concerned it seems.

"I love him." Jon doesn't see the point in sugarcoating it. He loves Punk, plain and simple. He loves what he knows, and nothing Punk could tell will make him change his mind. "Why is he so scared of letting me in?"

"_He's been hurt before... He's... Look, you remember the Cena thing, right?_" Cabana sounds like this isn't something he wants to be sharing, but Jon's interest is piqued. "_Fuck... I shouldn't tell you... This is something Punk should be telling you, not me... Jesus... This is why I'm happy being single. Life is way less complicated when you only need to worry about yourself..._"

"And your _Punkers_." Jon can't resist adding it in, can't resist trying to prompt Cabana to go patch things up with Punk, because being apart is clearly bad for the Saints. When, _if_, Punk is brave enough, he'll be told this story, he'll be told all the stories. It's strange, but the man Jon is for Punk is utterly convinced that Punk will be a better man, a _braver_ man for him in turn. It's the sort of faith in someone else Jon isn't used to having, and he's almost _proud _of himself for having it in Punk.

"_Yeah... My Punkers..._" Cabana trails off, and Jon takes a deep breath. He thinks he's going to have to do a little counselling himself for a change, but for Punk, and it _is_ for Punk, he'll give it a shot. He can't make things worse between the Saints if nothing else.

"Cabana, I said that he needs you, but let's face it, you need him just as much. Make up with him, being apart isn't good for you two." Jon tries to make it sound firm but kind, but the truth is, he wants Cabana to go to Punk and make him happy, so it's probably a little desperate sounding, because Jon is desperate. Punk has to be beside himself with misery, and Cabana doesn't sound too much better himself. Jon _needs_ the Saints to be happy, especially Punk to be happy for the sake of his sanity. There's an odd beeping noise from Cabana's cell, and some rustling, as he reads the text message.

"_I... I'm gonna go. That... That was Punkers... You're right, Gerbil Cheeks, I do need him._" Cabana chuckles, and Jon smiles, surprised that he doesn't feel any sting of jealousy, he's just happy that the Saints are on the road to a reunion. For Punk he truly is a better, more mature man, the Jon of his youth, the Jon of any other relationship would be trying to sabotage Punk and Cabana's friendship, but this Jon, the _good_ Jon, _Punk's_ Jon is a far better man. "_You love him? You really do love him?_" Cabana asks again, and Jon laughs.

"I love him. I love Punk more than I can tell you." Jon laughs, and Cabana chuckles down the line.

"_Okay... I'll fix this for you. I'm trusting you, Jon, trusting you with my Punkers. You look after him, okay?_" There's something heavy, but not _threatening_ in Cabana's voice, and Jon can feel the weight of the responsibility that's been given to him, and as heavy as that weight is, he's more than ready to take it.

"I will... Now go make up with him. I'm trusting you with my Punkin Pie... You make sure he's ready for some whip cream when I see him next." Jon laughs at the noise of disgust Cabana makes at that comment.

"_Oh god... Never make sex jokes about Punk to me again... Just never! I'm going. I'll do what I can... You're going where next?_" Cabana sounds like he's leaving his apartment, and Jon's beyond grateful for that, beyond grateful Punk won't be on his own for much longer.

"Back to Vegas for a few days." He mutters, and Cabana makes a considering noise.

"_Okay... Bye, Gerbil Cheeks._" He hangs up before Jon can answer, but its okay, all Jon would have said was goodbye anyway. There's nothing else to say, Cabana is going to Punk, and Jon is going to Vegas. No matter how much Jon wishes his and Cabana's destinations were the same they're not, and nothing much, short of maybe Cabana, is going to change that.

When Jon _finally_ gets back to Vegas, its dark, his apartment is black, and he doesn't care enough to flick the lights on. There're no trip hazards in his apartment, because there's nothing in his apartment in the first place. He'd eaten on the plane, and he already knows there's no food in his apartment, so he heads straight for bed. There's nothing much worth staying up for, it's not like he can expect a phone call asking after him, or missing him. There doesn't feel like there's any point in switching on the lights, there's nothing in any of the rooms that Jon wants to see, the only thing he wants is in Chicago, and he hopes he's being comforted by Cabana, he hopes the Saints have reconciled. Jon flops down on the bed, and there's a distressed whimper from beneath him.

"_Punk_!" Jon scrambles up, and stares at the man glaring at him, stares at Punk's messy hair, and frowning lips.

"Hello." Punk's voice is dry and cold, but his smile is warm, and his eyes are alive. He looks annoyed with his rude awakening, but happy to have Jon there. Jon reaches out to him, cradles his face, and can't stop staring. He _came_. For the second time ever in their _relationship,_ Punk came to him, and it fills Jon with _love._ "You're back?" Punk grins, and Jon snorts, not sure why Punk has decided to state the obvious, but not objecting to hearing his voice not filled with misery.

"I am... I... _Why_ are you here, Punkin?" Jon whispers. There's a part of him that's suspicious about this whole thing, a part of him that is sure he's asleep on a plane, or a bus, a part of him that can't believe that Punk would lay aside his much-lauded fear, and _come_ to Vegas.

"I'm here to _talk_." Punk smiles, a strangely happy little expression that catches Jon by surprise. "I've been running long enough, Jon." Punk squirms slightly, turning his face to nuzzle at Jon's palm. "I'm sorry I've been so... _Flighty_. I'm not used to anyone other than Cabana not grovelling to make it up to me." He presses his cheek more firmly against Jon's hand. "You left me to it, I was trying to one up you, and you saw it for what it was."

"I wanted to give you space, Punk." Jon mutters. He's surprised Punk's being so honest about this, surprised but relieved. If Punk can be so honest about something so _big_, there's hope he'll be honest about everything else.

"In the morning, I'll tell you anything you want to know, _anything_." Punk looks so serious as he stares up at Jon, his eyes are so openly honest, and Jon can't help but stare at him some more. "One question now though, a starter if you will."

"You ever fucked Cabana?" Jon knows the answer's no, he _knows_ it, but it was worth asking for the look of incredulous amusement on Punk's face.

"_Oh god_, no!" Punk laughs, and Jon leans down to kiss him. Their first kiss in far too long. It's as great and glorious as kissing Punk always is. There's never going to be a time when Jon's tired of kissing Punk, he's _sure_ of it. The whole time they've been apart Jon's felt fractured, but now with Punk in his arms, and his bed, he's whole, everything is right in his world. "I was in love with him for a while though. He _gets_ me in a way no one else does, not even you, but we're no romantically compatible." Jon hadn't expected that little extra bit of information, and he settles down beside Punk on the bed, his hand still on Punk's cheek.

"Oh?" He'd like more on this story, some extra information if only to have something on Cabana for the next time he's levelled with a failing science project stare.

"I think I started falling for him after I knew him for about a year... I don't get to make random drunk passes at people. _Straight edge_ has downsides, so I didn't say anything. Over time, it became abundantly clear that one, Bana is my _best_ friend, and dating him would be a horrible idea because I'd have no one to bitch about him to. Two, he's completely immune to my dubious charms, and three, he's straight, completely and boringly straight. He's quite happy to engage in manly snuggles, but dudes just don't rev his engine." Punk laughs, and Jon shakes his head. "We've slept together, shared a bed a million times, and we will a million times in the future. I love him, Cabbage Patch, but I'm not in love with him, and you aren't worried about me pining over Bana at all." Punk's eyes narrow, and Jon laughs, leaning over to peck the tip of Punk's nose.

"Not in the least." Jon chuckles as he settles back down. "You two go together like peanut butter and jelly, but I'm not worried about there being _more_ between you. You're fucking adorable together though... Like puppies or something." Jon laughs, and Punk snorts, licking Jon's palm.

"There's other things you wanna know though, isn't there? You wanna know why I'm so closed off... Why I don't wanna talk about my past?" Punk's light mood fades, and Jon nods. "Tomorrow..." He sighs, and Jon moves a little closer to him, pulling him so he's lying flush with Jon's body, his bare skin warm under Jon's hands. "I'll be as open as you want."

"It's tonight though, Punkin, and I wanna see you come. I've missed seeing your face, your body... _You_." There's so much more to Punk than the physical aspects, so much more that Jon adores, but he wants to see Punk come for him, wants to see Punk's hazy, soft just come face once more. Punk's hand dives under the pillows, and he produces a little bottle of lube.

"Boxers off, then." He grins, and Jon obliges him, stripping quickly. Punk's fingers wraps around Jon's cock, the digits slick with lube as he moves his hand steadily up and down, making Jon's cock harden rapidly.

"Punkin?" Jon mutters, and Punk shakes his head, his eyes downcast as he keeps stroking. "Look at me." Jon whispers, and Punk's face cants up to him. There's something in Punk's eyes, something smoulderingly hot, something that makes Jon's breath catch, and his mouth water.

"You're staring." Punk mutters, and Jon nods. He's staring, there's no arguing with that, and he's going to keep staring as long as Punk keeps looking so good.

"Yeah... Gimme that lube, and c'mere." Punk takes up the lube once more, and hands it to Jon, but stays lying on his side by him. "Over me." Jon slicks Punk's cock, jacking him hard, and guides Punk to lie over him. "I wanna see if we can get off like this." Jon whispers in Punk's ear. "As much as I want to be in you, I don't think now's the right time..." Jon trails off, and Punk laughs softly, lowering his head to press his face against Jon's neck.

"You'll fuck me when I let you in?" He laughs, and Jon snorts in amusement, but it's true enough, that _is_ his reasoning. When Punk's lets Jon in emotionally, then Jon will take him, but not before. "I told you, tomorrow... I'll talk tomorrow... I just." Whatever Punk was going to say is lost in a moan, his hips start moving restlessly, rubbing his cock against Jon's own. Jon's hands skim down Punk's back, and rest on his ass, squeezing it gently, pressing the cheeks together, then pulling them apart.

"You've lost weight." Jon mutters, and Punk moans breathily in his ear.

"Yeah... Losing more too." He murmurs, his voice soft and wispy. "You like it?"

"You're gorgeous, skinny, cuddly, doesn't matter, you're perfect." Jon moans, his hands moving up Punk's back to tangle in his hair, drawing him down for a kiss. It's like there's been no separation between them, like there's been no divide at all, in this moment, they're in tune, perfectly in sync, and Jon is more than grateful for that. He's missed his Sphinx Bastard so much, has missed the way he feels in his arm, has missed his scent, the way he sounds, _him_. They move against each other, their cocks pressed firmly together, and the sensation is more than Jon was expecting. He'd expected it to be difficult to get off like this, but as Punk moves, as Jon moves counter to Punk, it's far easier than he'd thought. The moment Punk's slim fingers wrap around their cocks, Jon can't help it, he clutches at Punk's shoulders, and flips them over inelegantly, bearing down on Punk, fucking the tight space created between Punk's hand and cock. Punk comes suddenly, his body quivering beneath Jon, and Jon takes hold of both his and Punk's cock, his fingers pressing against Punk's, fucking the tight channel until he finds his release swiftly. Jon manages to collapse on the bed beside Punk, rather than on top of him again, and watches a contented Punk lapping the combination of their cum from his fingers.

"You gonna get that?" There's a hint of greed in Punk's tone, and Jon quickly licks his own soiled hand. "Mean... You're supposed to share." Punk leans over and kisses Jon, a thorough probing kiss that chases every drop of their combined flavours from Jon's mouth. "We taste good." Punk smirks, and lies down once more. "So... Tomorrow... I'll talk, but when do I get to hear your story?"

"I'd tell you now if you wanted." Jon mutters, and Punk looks at him, his eyes narrowed, looking suspicious, but he does nod. He wants to know Jon's story as soon as possible, and that fact makes Jon's heart soar despite the bleakness of the upcoming tale.

"Okay, the cliff notes version." Punk murmurs, and Jon starts to talk as Punk lies there listening. He doesn't ask questions, he just listens to Jon soliloquy on his life. There are a few moments where Jon wants to gloss things over, where he wants to leave out some of the darker patches, but he ignores that part of him. He has to be _honest_ with Punk. It's one of those facets of Jon that have changed, or rather been _revealed_, for Punk. In any other _relationship_ Jon would never consider doing this, but for Punk, he will explain everything of himself in graphic detail. Once he finishes talking, and is given the softest, sweetest, most _understanding_ kiss of his life, Jon can't imagine not telling _every_ little thing to his Sphinx Bastard.

In the morning, Jon wakes up to find Punk stroking his hair, his head on Punk's thighs. They definitely feel firmer, and he's not sure how he feels about that. He had meant it though, no matter what the outside of Punk looks like, Jon will _always_ think he's gorgeous. Punk starts to talk, starting from his first memory, and doesn't stop until he's told Jon all the way up to leaving the WWE, and what he's been up to since then. It's a strangely familiar but unfamiliar tale. A story that Jon's only heard the condensed version of before. It's a tale that makes Jon's fists itch, and long to connect with faraway flesh, but there was something missing from it. The tales of Punk's romantic exploits weren't glossed over, they were given in exacting and clearly painful detail, but Cena was, Punk had skimmed over what had happened there.

"Punkin... I wanna know about Cena." Jon says softly once Punk's been quiet for a while, and he sighs softly.

"Lemma have a shower first... I hate talking about my _past_... It makes me feel dirty." Punk slips out of bed, and is in the shower before Jon can argue. He dresses quickly, and carries his luggage to the bedroom, emptying the dirty clothes into a pile near the door. "Living room!" Punk shouts eventually, and Jon wanders through, taking a seat on an armchair. His mind is buzzing, filled with all of the information he's been given so far, and anxious to hear what else Punk has to say.

"So... Cena?" Jon asks, and Punk nods, his eyes focussed on anything but Jon. Whatever he has to say, it's clear he doesn't think Jon will like it.

"He's just the latest in a long list of men who've hurt me. We did become _friends_, so don't hate him, but... When I was red hot, he _approached_ me, asked me out... And well, I was flattered. I mean, he's the face of the company, this _Global_ phenomenon, and I was me, skinny fat, scruffy me." Punk smiles sadly, and Jon frowns.

"That offended you more than you let on, didn't it?" He says suddenly, and Punk sighs, a wry grin on his face.

"I'm gonna have a hard time keeping anything from you, aren't I?" He laughs, and Jon smirks at him, nodding. He's pleased he can read Punk so well, and even more pissed at HHH than he had been after listening to the podcasts. The man is bitter and petty, the sort of man who wanted power, and so should be kept far from it, the sort of man who barely deserves to walk the same planet as his Sphinx Bastard. "So... Anyway, I agree to go on a date him, and one date turns to two, and two to three. It never really goes beyond that, I kissed him one time, but then my booking changed. The Office claimed it was because I was a ratings killer, but then ratings didn't improve when Cena was closing the show. I mentioned it to Cena, and he shrugged it off, saying it was Creative's decision. I shifted more merch than him, then I was pulled back from closing PPVs, the Champion, but not the Main Event." Punk's smile takes a miserable little twist at this point. "I have a guardian angel in the office, I'm not giving you names, so don't ask. I got sent an email chain between Paul and Cena." Punk sighs, and scrubs at his face. "Cena is protective over his spot... He doesn't know that I know what he did. Don't tell him... It's_ useful_ to have it in my back pocket... One day it might help you out. I'm not going back there, but I'll be damned if I'm letting them do to you what they did to me, Jon." There's a fire in Punk's eyes when he looks at Jon, a fire Jon _knows_ he returns. "You don't have the same philosophy as me, neither does Seth, you both accept help... I never did. If I have to, I'll use my _leverage_ to help you. I'm never going back there, but it's your dream, I know that, and I respect that. I despise them, but I love you, I support you."

"_Phil_..." Jon isn't too sure what to say to that, it was earnest and raw, almost enough to make him forget the fact that Cena, a man Punk has referred to as a _friend_ intentionally fucked with Punk's push to protect himself. It's no wonder Punk has such fears about letting people close. He's been betrayed, and lied to so often, it's not a surprise that he tries to keep people out, but once you're in, you're in, and Jon _knows _he's in now. This is everything he'd wanted, he can see the whys, the hows, the becauses of Punk, and he thinks Punk can see the same of him. "I don't know what to say... _Thank you_... I... Just thank you for trusting me... Thank you for letting me trust you too... Last night, I told you things no one else knows, and I know they're safe with you." Punk looks at Jon, and nods. There's an unspoken confirmation that every word Jon said is locked in Punk's brain and heart, every word is treasured, and memorised, because the past hurts, and it's not something Punk wants to make Jon relive again.

"One last thing... I have a new job." Punk smiles awkwardly, and Jon waits for the rest of this sentence. He's trying, but probably failing to hide the fact that he's quivering inside with anger over the rest of Punk's tale, over Cena, over how there really have been so _few_ people who have had his Sphinx Bastard's back over the years. The people Punk loves are the best people in the World, Jon's sure of that, but he loves Punk, yet he supposes for Punk he is a good man, and as he loves Punk, he'll be on the list, though maybe pretty low. "It was my cover story for being in Vegas... If you decided to kick me out, at least I'd have a reason to be here."

"UFC?" It's out of Jon's mouth before he can stop it, and Punk laughs. The sound is heavy with an odd mix of contrite, surprise, and happiness. "Punkin, you've never had a professional, hell an amateur fight in your life."

"I got the shit kicked out me by Teddy Hart, if that counts." Punk laughs, and Jon shakes his head. "They offered, and I _really_ want to do this... I want to do it before I can't, and this is the best opportunity for me."

"I'm dating a masochist." Jon sighs, and Punk chuckles sullenly. "The press, the fans, _everyone _will be waiting for you to fail." Jon watches as Punk turns to stare at the floor, his shoulders drooping, his hands moving over his biceps like he's cold.

"I know." He mumbles. It's really like Jon has stolen all of that happiness from the room at Punk's little announcement. He knows that the World will be waiting for Punk to fail at this, but Jon also knows that Punk doesn't care about failure so long as those he loves are proud of him. Jon smiles slightly, and reaches into his pocket. He's proud of Punk, proud to be his lover, proud to wear his ring.

"Hey... I got you something." Punk glances up from staring at the floor, and Jon smiles at him, moving over to sit by him, getting a lapful of a mildly trembling Punk. Jon's arms wrap around him tightly, his hands moving up and down his back. He understands. He gets why Punk's shaking, gets that this was an emotional conversation, one that Punk had walked into head on, and he's happy to be able to offer comfort. Punk needs him to, Punk needs this, needs Jon. "You want your present or not, Punkin?" Jon asks after a long time of doing nothing but holding Punk tightly.

"I don't need a present, Cabbage Patch." Punk mutters, leaning back so he can meet Jon's eyes. There's a tentative smile on his lips, and Jon pecks that smile softly. "You're not pissed about me getting punched in the face for a living?" Punk laughs sullenly, and Jon snorts, shaking his head.

"Punkin, this is something you've wanted for a long time, and you're going out there and doing it. I'm _proud_ of you." At Jon's words Punk seems to light up, his eyes are filled with what can only be _love_. "I'd rather you avoid being punched in the face, though. It's too pretty to be damaged." Jon smiles, and Punk laughs again, but this time it's a gloriously happy sound, and a gleeful grin settles on his lips.

"_C'mon_. I'm not _pretty_. I've got this squint as hell nose, no lips, and ears that'd make Dumbo jealous." Punk's laugh is distressingly self-deprecating, and Jon scowls at him. "You're the pretty one in this relationship, Gerbil Cheeks." Punk squishes Jon's face, chuckling at the glare Jon knows is there.

"Don't argue with me, Punkernickle, you're _pretty_." Jon's fingers dance over Punk's ribs, drawing a surprised _giggle_ from him. "Now, close your eyes." Punk sighs dramatically, but does close his eyes. "Hold out your hand." He does as Jon asks, and holds out his hand, letting Jon place his present in it. "Okay, open them."

"You got me a string?" Punk holds up the long red thread, staring at it in confusion.

"Yup. Turn round. Lemme put it on you." Punk slips from Jon's lap to sit on the floor, his back turned to Jon.

"It's a lovely string..." He mutters, and Jon distractedly agrees with a vague, m_mhmm_. He slips the real present on the string and knots it firmly, before letting go, letting Punk feel the weight of his gift. Punk's hand is up and twisting the string around quickly, turning it so he can see the little silver ring Jon had tied to it. "You got me a ring?"

"I got you a ring." Jon confirms, watching Punk's reflection in the TV. "It means as much, or as little as you like, Punkin." Jon echoes the words Punk had said to him when he'd given Jon the ring around his neck.

"So you got me a ring." Punk murmurs. He's turning the little loop of metal around and around. "It's very pretty... I feel like I should have got you a nicer one, but I don't know... I think gunmetal is more _Dean Ambrose_... Don't think I haven't noticed it when you're on camera, but not in the ring." Punk laughs. His reflection is still focused on the ring, still turning it over and over. "I like it... It looks like-"

"Your lipring? I wanted it to remind you of it... I miss that, but I get it's gone. You're not _that_ Punk anymore." Jon slides down the couch, forcing Punk to scoot forward, and the couch backward, so Jon can wrap around Punk's back. "You're my Punk, right?" Punk laughs and shakes his head.

"No... I'm _my_ Punk." His hands rest over Jon's arms, pulling them tighter around him. "I'm _your_ other half, I'm your _boyfriend_, I'm your Punkin Pie, I'm your lover, I'm your friend, I'm your biggest supporter, I'm your rambling like a moron on the floor while being kinda cold and a lot hungry-"

"C'mon, I'll get you breakfast." Jon laughs, and stands, pulling Punk to his feet. He's not sure how to respond to Punk's ramble. He thinks he's just going to have to remember that when Punk's feeling particularly romanced, he _rambles_. It's a cute trait, one that Jon wants to see more of really, romancing Punk is more than enjoyable, and rambling Punk is utterly adorable.

"I didn't say anything on the podcast, because I don't want you to get into shit with The Office because of me." Punk says suddenly, as he sits on the couch. "They'll shit on you if they know you're with me, and before you say you don't care, I _do_." Punk levels Jon with a stare, and Jon bows his head slightly, _I don't care_ had been on his lips ready to leave his mouth. "So, you're going to go get me breakfast takeaway food, and I'll make breakfast coffee. I brought stuff with me." Punk grins, and Jon smirks at him. He understands where Punk's coming from, and is grateful that him working for the WWE isn't the problem it could have been. It'll still be a problem, but Jon has faith that Punk will be able to handle it.

"This isn't home for me, you know that, Punkin?" Jon smiles, at Punk, at the cutely confused expression on his face. "Home... It's with you, but if you want to make this a second base... A home away from home, for your fights, I won't object." Jon smiles, and Punk nods. He walks over to Jon, kissing him gently. "You're gonna want something healthy, right?"

"I want something laden with calories... I intend to burn a lot of energy today." Punk laughs, and Jon smacks his ass as he turns his back to go to the kitchen. Once Jon's ready to go, Punk pokes his head around the kitchen door, his ring held in his hand. "Cabbage Patch?"

"Uh-huh? You got a more specified request?" Jon smiles at him, expecting Punk to do nothing more than narrow down his breakfast choice. He wasn't expecting to get the look from Punk, the look that makes Jon feel like the centre of Punk's universe.

"It means a lot to me too." He kisses his ring, and vanishes back into the kitchen. Jon's hand goes to the ring hanging around his neck, and squeezes it tightly. He'd been wrong about the cigarette being the symbol for their relationship, it was a symbol of the toxic parts of them that needed to be burnt away, a symbol of the worst of them. The loops of metal they both wear, _those_ are the symbol of their relationship, something moulded, something pure, something solid, something that means a lot to both of them.

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><p><em>Many thanks to the ladies and gentlemen who reviewed:<em>

**VKxXx92, littleone1389, and Brokenspell77.**_  
><em>

_That's this one all done. (Why do I get the feeling I should be adding till next time on the end here? I also feel I should make it know I have no more suitable PunkBrose pictures... If you'd like to send me some, please do so! :3)_

__**Reviews, comments, concerns and asides are always welcomed.**__


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